


Tuxedo Angel

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bonding, Case Fic, Community: hd_holidays, Crossdressing, Cursed Bond, Dark Magic, Genderbending, HP: EWE, Harry Thinks Malfoy Is Up To Something, Living Together, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mpreg, Old Magic, Singing, Torch Singer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Neville are looking for the infamous Dragon Lily, a Dark witch active throughout Europe and Asia. Instead, they find the Tuxedo Angel, a beautiful witch performing in Rome. Harry quickly discovers that the Angel is not what she seems, and fights his attraction to her, while both he and the Angel are drawn into a web created by ancient magic that pulls them together, whether they are ready for it or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuxedo Angel

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2012 round of hd_holidays on Livejournal, as a gift for badcook. She requested alpha/beta/omega dynamics and feminine Draco, and this is what spilled out. The title comes from the the Billie Myers song, "Flexible". 
> 
> I am thankful to my ever patient beta reader eternaleponine and to teas_me who was both beta and cheerleader all along the way.
> 
> As always, JK Rowling owns the world and characters of Harry Potter. I just like to do unusual things with them.

The colour is classic: Red Carmine. It glides across my lips, coating them with a kiss of lipstick, staining my skin a deep red, almost the exact shade of freshly spilled blood.

The colour that blood is before it dulls, deepening to a brick, then eventually to brown.

Those are thoughts for another time ( _the way her blood dripped out over the table, the way it left indelible stains that lay beneath our plates at dinner later that night_ ). I purse my lips, blowing kisses at the mirror, and fluff my pale curls. The cut and curl softens my features, and carefully applied blush rounds my cheekbones, hiding how thin and sharp I am.

I weigh the small bag of pudding in my hand before I tuck it into one bra cup, then the second into the other. A quick tug, tuck, and fluff, and I have breasts any woman would envy, hidden beneath a silver camisole.

Black shorts and a tuxedo jacket go on over that, and five inch silver heels complete the ensemble.

I check the mirror to ensure that everything is in the right place: my tits are even, and my prick is tucked back, hidden so my crotch is smooth. My legs are neat and long, all hair long gone from a proper depilatory spell.

There are no flaws.

I am perfect.

The stage whispers my name, and the Tuxedo Angel answers.

#

Dear Hannah,

We’re in Rome tonight. We’re fairly certain she’s come through here, likely as recent as a week ago, but we’ve no idea why. We still only have the same things we had last week, and last month. She’s probably right about our age, or a bit older, between 23 and 26. She might be British, or Italian, or French, or Romanian. It’s possible she’s German, as she speaks that language fluently as well, but we’ve heard her accent is a bit off, so it’s not likely. Personally, I think she’s British, but Harry thinks she’s Italian, which is a part of why we’re in Rome.

She certainly does like Rome quite a bit. We’ve tracked her back to this one particular city sixteen times in the last seven months alone.

It’s been eight months now since we left Britain. I do miss you, Hannah. With luck, we’ll find her soon and be home not long after that.

I think Harry’s having a rough time of it. He decided we ought to go out tonight. To relax, he says, but I think he actually wants to pull. Don’t worry, I’m not at all interested, although he says he’s taking me to a burlesque club the concierge mentioned. I won’t look at anyone who is naked, I promise. Or if I do, I shall only think of you at the time.

But I can’t let him go alone. He’s reached that odd point where he’s muttering to himself when he thinks I’m not likely to notice. He watches every woman around us as if she might be our witch, and he won’t stop checking with the authorities to see if more owls have been intercepted.

There were, too. Three this week, from her to her contacts, but Harry’s sure they’re just fakes to throw us off track. He believes she’s found some new way of passing information, perhaps something like Hermione’s coins.

That reminds me, can you please make certain that Hermione has been taking care of the plant I gave her last spring? Ron said Hermione’s pregnant, and if that’s so, she’ll need it to help with the nausea. Thank you.

Where was I?

Oh yes, Harry’s becoming obsessed. You know how he can get, when he knows there is something and it gnaws at him, eating away until he can’t sleep or breathe without thinking about the problem. But this time there’s nothing for him to fixate on, so he’s spinning in circles and going nowhere.

Hopefully this night out helps him. At least I’ll be along to make sure he gets home all right if he’s too pissed to Apparate again like last time.

He’s a good partner, Hannah, he truly is. But this case is wearing on him. It’s wearing on both of us because we’ve been away from everyone so long. I don’t think he writes home much, not anything of substance anyway. He said he got a letter from Hermione, all about her work at the Ministry, and a letter from Ron that was mostly about George’s shop and some new products they have. Ginny doesn’t write, but I don’t think he wants her to. When we met up with her during that Quidditch match in Amsterdam, they were absolutely horrid to each other. He muffled their argument so I couldn’t hear the words, but anyone with eyes could see they were both upset.

That was the last time he got truly pissed out of his mind, actually. I rather hope he’s not that bad tonight.

I’m going to send this now. Don’t forget about the privacy spell. Of course, if it’s intercepted on the way to you and the spell is triggered then, you’ll never get it, so there won’t be anything to mind about it. I hope this letter makes it to you safe and sound.

I’m sorry the last letter burnt your hands. I’ve tried to set it to delay a bit longer this time before it goes into flames, but the spell required on all deployed Auror communications isn’t actually mine to change. Harry says I ought to write less, so you’ll be able to read faster, but I don’t think he understands how much I miss you. I don’t think he misses anyone that much right now.

I love you, Hannah.

I have a good feeling about Rome. I think we’ll manage to get a break in this case, and with luck, we’ll be home soon. I don’t want to spend the holidays away from you.

Yours always,

Neville

#

Harry doesn’t want to be in a club tonight, but he doesn’t want to drink alone, either. Of course, Neville looks as if he is there under duress, his gaze unable to find anything to light upon that isn’t half-naked or trying to drape itself across the two men. When one girl leans down to kiss Neville’s cheek, Harry reaches out to tug her into his lap instead, nuzzling her throat.

They’ve been here for two hours already. They missed the first show—the one the concierge told them not to miss—so they’ve stayed, drinking and waiting for the last show of the night where she will be performing again. The Tuxedo Angel, the pride of Rome’s _Il Bar di Gattino_.

Harry is warm and comfortable after several drinks. He is tempted to tell Neville to go on back to the hotel and not worry about him, but he knows that no matter what he says, Neville will worry. Neville will wonder, and worry, and wait until Harry comes back, so it’s best if Harry simply lets Neville take care of him now.

The music shifts, changes. The lights go down in the main room of the bar, and come up on the stage, setting a single spotlight. The woman who steps out from the curtains lands dead center in the spot, lit perfectly as if she has done it a hundred, perhaps a thousand, times before.

When she begins to sing, her voice is husky. Throaty. It rumbles into Harry’s chest and squeezes tight until he sits up, moving to the edge of his seat, leaning forward.

She is tall for a woman, with sharp features and long, narrow fingers. She gestures as she sings, her tuxedo jacket gapping, giving a delightful peek at the camisole beneath. Her legs seem to stretch on forever, long and lean, her feet tucked into silver open-toed shoes. Harry can imagine those legs wrapped around his waist, can imagine her pressed up against the wall as he fucks her. He starts to smile, because he _knows_ who he wants to pull tonight.

Nothing else will do but this angel.

“He’s pretty,” Neville says quietly, leaning in as he speaks. “But did you know that we were coming to see a bloke in drag?”

Harry feels his heart stop.

The Tuxedo Angel lifts her chin as she holds a long note, and the velvet ribbon around her throat slips just enough for Harry to see the curve of her adam’s apple.

He swallows hard. She’s a he, and that hasn’t changed the ache in his groin and Harry doesn’t understand that. He _knows_ she isn’t _real_ and he still wants her. Desperately.

“Harry?” Neville nudges him slightly. “You all right? You’re starting to look a bit peaked. Maybe we ought to head back to the hotel.”

“You go,” Harry says, his gaze still locked on the woman who has just shifted into her second song. He feels each note trilling through him, and his hands clench against the desire to walk up on stage right now.

“No.” Neville’s voice is firm. “You look off, Harry, and I think we ought to get you out of here now, before you do something you regret. You’ve always been rather obsessed with Malfoy, after all. I can’t think—”

Harry stops Neville’s words with a sharp slash of his hand through the air.

Malfoy. Yes, that’s why he knows those features, that voice. That’s _Malfoy_ up there on that stage.

That’s Malfoy, here in Rome, where they know the Dragon Lily has recently been.

A slow smile begins as Harry murmurs, “Malfoy’s up to something. I know it.”

#

I didn’t plan a third song, but I begin one anyway. Anything to keep from leaving the stage, because doing so will shatter who I am.

The third song changes to a fourth before I see them stand. One wobbles ( _Potter, why is it always Potter?_ ) and the other steadies him ( _Longbottom, of course, the great symbol of Britain’s stability_ ). They make their way to the Floo, and by the time I finish my song, they are gone.

I make my way backstage amidst thunderous applause. The audience believes I did it for them, gave them more than they wanted as a gift of my talents. The floor girls move through the audience, collecting tips, and I am certain they will be good.

“Hello, darling.”

I am caught as I step into my dressing room and pulled into an embrace, the tiny woman standing on her tiptoes to press her lips to mine. She steals my kiss, and I see it staining her mouth when she pulls away again, smiling a blood red smile.

“What is it, Pansy?” I sit at the small table and carefully remove my breasts.

“I can teach you a spell for better tits than that, darling.” She arranges herself on a stool, legs crossed at the ankles and tucked back. Every bit of her screams understated expense, from her serviceable three hundred galleon black heels to the custom-tailored suit she wears. I wonder how much of it is real, and how much is glamour.

I learned the hard way that much about Pansy is glamour. For example, her brilliant tits. Non-existent, less than a handful, and incredibly disappointing to a seventeen year old boy touching them for the first time. She’s learned better since then, or grown her own pair. With Pansy, it’s hard to tell. Either way, I find little to complain about in her appearance, but also little that I can take for granted these days.

“What are you here for, Pansy?” I touch my wand to the cotton pad on my table, charming it to easily remove my makeup. “I am well aware how often you are in Rome, and rarely do you bother to reach out to me. Thus, you want something.”

And that it is likely something that I do not want to give her, because it belongs to the pieces of my life that lie in tatters. There are some things worth fixing; my past is not one of those. 

“You know a man—”

I laugh sharply. “I know several men, Pansy, in many different ways. Perhaps you should be more specific.”

She taps me on the nose with her cigarette holder, then holds it out, waiting for me to light it for her. She takes a slow drag, considering me as she blows the smoke out again. “Dolohov. Yes, yes, I know Antonin is dead, but you are familiar with his nephew, are you not? Six foot three, shockingly blond hair, quite handsome I do believe, and dark intense eyes that he inherited from his father. Perhaps a bit of madness as well, but then, you are quite used to that.”

“You go too far,” I snap. _She_ is on the list of things I do not speak of. Let the madness lie amongst the ruins of my past.

“Do I?”

She slips from the stool and catches my hand. Her fingers are tight around my wrist, nails digging into the tender skin between the bones. Pansy knows pain, her touch delicate and strong and perfectly placed. I breathe in slowly, measuring every moment. I can outwait her. She is nothing like my aunt ( _the way Bellatrix drew her wand across my skin, reveling in the way it bit into it, slicing me open_ )… I shake the memory away.

“Potter is here.” I don’t know if that will bother her, but I suspect it will. They were never friends, and I doubt that she would have affection for him now. Pansy operates with a loose sense of morality, while rumour has it that Potter is one of the golden stars of the Aurors of Britain.

“Exactly.” Her smile is sharp, full of teeth and betrayal. “Tell Dolohov to come see you sing. You know Potter will be back now that he’s seen you; he never could keep his eyes off of you, darling. Tell Dolohov that I expect him to fulfill our bargain. He’ll know what you mean. Then you and he can do whatever you wish, after that. He’s all yours, darling. My gift.”

“You’re bringing Dolohov in to—” I stop speaking when Pansy’s finger presses against my lips.

“Shh,” she whispers. “Don’t think about it. Don’t worry your pretty little head. It has nothing to do with you, darling; you are merely the messenger.”

I stand, silent, until she backs away. I say nothing else as she leaves, not yes or no. I’ll have to sleep on it.

For now, I finish removing my makeup, and hang up my tuxedo. The angel has been replaced by something mundane, and it is time to go home.

#

Tuesday, 4 November, 2003

Rome, Italy

During the evening of Monday, 3 November, Auror Potter and I attended the evening show at Il Bar di Gattino in Rome, Italy. While there, we observed their headline act, a woman known only by the pseudonym “Tuxedo Angel”. As she performed, Auror Potter and I noted that the woman bears a striking resemblance to one Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater and exile from Wizarding Britain. We believe that Draco Malfoy now resides in Rome and performs regularly as a woman at this bar. We do not believe we were noticed, as Malfoy was entirely focused upon ~~his~~ ~~her~~ ~~his~~ her performance at the time.

Auror Potter and I believe that Draco Malfoy bears watching, based on his prior illicit and illegal behaviour. It is possible that this Tuxedo Angel is either the witch we are seeking, or he may have contact with the witch. Either way, it behooves us to insinuate ourselves into Malfoy’s circle and determine why, exactly, he resides in Rome and who he has contact with.

If Draco Malfoy is involved with the Dragon Lily (note: investigate any attachment Malfoy might have to the name Lily; his attachment to the dragon is obvious) this may be the break we have needed in this case.

Please forward all documents concerning and pertaining to Draco Malfoy. We are aware that he has been followed since his trial and subsequent self chosen exile five years ago, in November of 1998, and we request that those records be unsealed and forwarded to our hotel immediately. Any information regarding Malfoy’s behavioural patterns, habits, and life for the last five years may shed light upon the whereabouts of the Dragon Lily and allow us to apprehend her.

If it is found that Draco Malfoy is not in any way involved with the Dragon Lily, either as the witch herself, as one who knows her, or as a courier for her information, he will, of course, be left to live in peace.

Thank you for your swift attention to this matter. We will forward any new information gathered that might lead to the apprehension of our suspect.

Sincerely,

Auror Neville F. Longbottom

#

Harry isn’t obsessed with Draco Malfoy. Obsession implies an unhealthy interest, and Harry’s interest is completely appropriate. Malfoy has always been the sort to fall in with seedy plans and people, and Harry suspects that the activities of the most infamous spy in recent history would be exactly what might appeal to him.

He and Neville have split their attention tonight. Neville is back in their room, writing letters and going over the most recent intercepted correspondence for trace information, while Harry has taken a small booth at the corner of the bar and cast a notice-me-not spell. Harry had to promise not to drink. His head still has a dull ache from the previous night, a faint thrum behind his eyelids that is only held at bay by drinking a hangover potion every six hours, along with plenty of water and sweets.

So water is all he has, the glass leaving drips of condensation against the wood table. He came early tonight, sitting quietly through the Tuxedo Angel’s first set. Studying her. Memorizing her features and mapping her to the Malfoy he remembers.

It was a long time ago when Harry saw him last, when the sentence was handed down at the end of his trial. Malfoy could choose Azkaban for three months, and a house arrest to finish a year’s sentence, or he could leave Britain permanently in irrevocable exile. Overly slender, his pale skin drawn and tight over his bones, Malfoy had calmly stated that he chose exile. He was gone within the week, and until last night, Harry hasn’t seen a sign of him.

The others who perform are nothing compared to Tuxedo Angel. They come in all shapes and sizes, gender and styles. They are all passable singers, and many dance passably well, too. But when _she_ returns to the stage for her late show, Harry finds himself on the edge of his seat, the heel of his hand pressed against his lap, trying to contain his body’s reaction.

Her voice is soft smoke, slipping into his lungs and stealing his breath. His heart pounds, his palms sweat. He wants her. Even knowing that she _might_ be Malfoy ( _she is Malfoy, he is certain of it, he would know Malfoy anywhere_ ), his desire doesn’t dim. He leans forward, mouth slightly open as if he could taste her scent on the words she sings.

“She is beautiful, yes?”

Harry twists to see a man dropping onto the other bench in the booth. Harry’s gaze narrows. “Who are you?”

“Merely another fan of our Angel.” The stranger spreads his hands, his pleasant smile never reaching his eyes. Harry doesn’t trust a bloke who doesn’t smile with his eyes.

Harry wants to snap at him to go sit somewhere else, but he needs to be generic tonight. Forgettable. And ordering this bloke away would make a memory that anyone who heard them would keep easily. Instead, he plays friendly, calling for a pint for the bloke, and a refresh of his own glass. One of the ubiquitous girls delivers them, leaving with a tip and disappointment that neither of them wants more.

Harry doesn’t want anything to distract him from the show.

He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over him, but it doesn’t change how aroused he feels. He could swear he can catch her scent, something with… with… leather, roses, and… cinnamon? It makes no sense, but it slips in and Harry’s heart races with every word.

The first song ends, and Harry watches through half-closed eyes as Tuxedo Angel drinks down a glass of wine. Harry can just barely see the movement of her throat as she swallows, her neck covered by a soft silk scarf.

For a moment, Harry imagines taking that scarf and trailing it over her chest, teasing her nipples tight with the sensation. His mind supplies a chest _almost_ flat enough to be male, with a gentle swell of breasts. Just enough to tease, to taste, to suck whole into his mouth. His breath is ragged, and he can’t make the image leave as he sees her spread out against a red silk backdrop, and imagines _Malfoy’s_ silver eyes staring back at him.

“You seem uncomfortable.”

Harry’s gaze snaps to the man sitting at his table. The stranger’s gaze drops from Harry’s face to where his hands twist together tightly in his lap as Harry hunches over. Harry struggles to gain control of his breath. “I’m fine.” He manages to loosen his fingers, spreading them out, stretching them before his hands fall to his knees and grip there. He needs something to hold on to, or else he might get up right now and head to the back so he can see her in person.

He is so focused on _her_ that he almost doesn’t hear the whisper-soft sound of wood against fabric. It is unmistakable, the sound a wand makes when slipped from a sleeve. Harry is twisting as he turns to face the stranger and a spell zings over his shoulder.

So much for being forgettable.

Harry’s heart is racing now as he shifts gears into the fight, into defending himself. Somewhere in the back of his mind he catalogs the spell, trying to remember the quiet words, the color, sorting through possible options until he comes up with dark magic—a spell that would stop the heart. Almost impossible to detect, and never easy to cast. This man grew up with dark magic surrounding him, and likely has access to materials the Ministry would love to get their hands on.

The fight is swift, playing out in a silence so deep that Harry knows he somehow missed privacy spells being cast. He damns his interest in ( _Malfoy_ ) the Tuxedo Angel for distracting him so much that he didn’t see the obvious. But now that he has been attacked, Harry reacts on instinct. He disarms the stranger, then binds and silences him. As he checks him for a spare wand, or anything else that could cause trouble, he spots the faded scars of a Dark Mark on his forearm. Harry frowns, and lifts the silence spell after making absolutely certain that the man’s arms and hands are well-bound.

This man could be their link to the Dragon Lily.

“Who sent you?” Harry growls softly. “What are you doing here?”

The man stares at him, and when he smiles it is pleasant, almost charming if it were real. “The Angel, of course. My name is Dolohov.”

Harry’s gaze slips, just for a moment, to where the Tuxedo Angel is just finishing a third song. Her gaze lights on him—Harry is sure she sees him despite the crowd, the dark, and the privacy spells. She frowns, and Harry can’t breathe.

There is a _pop_ and Harry’s prisoner is gone.

His jaw sets. It is obvious to him that Draco Malfoy is up to something, and that something can’t possibly be good. That wasn’t Antonin Dolohov, but he was a Death Eater, and Harry assumes he must be a son, or nephew, or some other relative. Harry dispels the lingering privacy spells and pushes back roughly. It’s time to talk to Malfoy, whether anyone wants Harry in her dressing room or not. This is official business, and he won’t take no for an answer.

#

I spot Potter in the back corner with Dolohov while I’m in the middle of my third song. No one else has noticed the commotion, but something draws my gaze back. I’m too much of a professional to let my voice stutter as I watch, but I can’t seem to _stop_ watching, either.

Dolohov looks bound, and Potter is angry. And it’s my fault Dolohov is here. I didn’t tell him about Potter, just mentioned that I hadn’t seen him in a while and perhaps he ought to come see me sing. But it seems that Dolohov figured out Pansy’s intent entirely on his own.

I wish I could hear what they’re saying, but I can’t, and a spell to help me do so would interrupt the song. There is nothing to do but finish and curtsey, accepting the applause before I duck back through the curtains and disappear backstage.

Potter grabs me as soon as I step into my dressing room, and shoves me against the wall, his wand tip pointed at my nose. He glares, one side of his lip lifted in a snarl. “What are you up to, Malfoy?”

His hand is on my shoulder, his body leaning into me to pin me against the wall. The door has bounced closed behind me, and we are entirely alone here. Potter is shorter than me when I have my heels on, but he makes up for it in the breadth of his shoulders and the strength with which he holds me there. I can’t move. My pulse thunders in my ears and my body aches with a swift burst of hunger. I do my best to stay limp in his hold and let my breath out slowly. “I was going to get changed, Potter, but now that you’re here, I think that shall wait. Was there something that you needed?”

( _stay in control of the situation, never let Potter see you sweat_ )

( _slow the heart, slow the heart, oh Merlin what is that scent_?)

My breath hisses out through gritted teeth as Potter leans in closer. He smells like something deep and earthy, a scent that curls in my gut and settles even lower than that. There is a slow throbbing in my groin, making me _aware_ of all my parts in ways that I never have been before. 

I am _attracted_ to Potter.

That part makes some sense at least; he’s a fit bloke. But I don’t want to give way, to tilt my head back and expose my throat. If I do that, it will tell Potter that _he_ controls this. Controls me.

But my body buzzes, blood thrumming just beneath my skin.

Bloody hell. Out of all the men I have ever gotten hard for, Potter has to be the least appropriate. I shift, squirming, trying not to let him lean against me just so ( _I want him to lean there, to press there, to rub there, Merlin, just fuck me already_ ) so he can’t tell how I’m reacting.

“You could let me go,” I point out, jerking my chin towards the dressing table with its assorted pots of creams and the large mirror and the lights. “My wand is there, on the dressing table. I have absolutely no intention of using it against you. And I’d like to remove my makeup before it cakes to my skin and does damage to it. Stage makeup can do terrible things to one’s skin.”

Potter’s hands untwist slowly; I’m certain there are prints from his fingers on my shoulder, marring my delicate, pale skin. I bruise easily.

I fight to keep my breath even and to stay utterly still as Potter peels himself away from me, taking a step back. I meet Potter’s gaze, willing him to meet mine. I don’t want him to look lower and see where my crotch is no longer silky and smooth beneath my dress. I don’t want him to somehow see through the false breasts I wear and note how stiff and pointed my nipples are. I don’t want him to see that I am attracted to him. Practically gagging for him, I feel the need so strongly.

His nostrils flare and I wonder what he scents, and if he feels this too.

I keep my head held high as I move to my dressing table and pull out the chair. I begin the careful process of removing my makeup, moisturizing as I go. It is a lengthy set of spells, designed to minimize any damage to my appearance from the steady influx of oils from the makeup. I could just cast a glamour each night, I suppose, but there is something visceral in changing one’s appearance the mundane way. I prefer it.

“You brought Dolohov in to kill me.”

Potter’s voice is flat. I glance in the mirror and he stands right behind me, his arms crossed. It occurs to me that if he dropped his hands, they would be on my shoulders, or perhaps around my neck, and I shiver.

“No, I did not.” As my face comes clean, I pick up a small pot and carefully redo the liner around my eyes. I can see Potter in the mirror; my hand shakes slightly as he watches me intently. “I merely invited him to listen to me sing. If he decided to kill you, that is entirely his own idea. I can’t entirely blame him, either. You have that air about you that makes one want to commit murder.”

I’m baiting him. I am teasing the lion and with every word my breath catches and my heart thumps an extra beat.

I want him to react.

“What do you know about the Dragon Lily?” he asks.

“The what?” I shrug one shoulder. “I never was one for herbology.” I have no idea what he’s talking about, and it is plain from his expression that he doesn’t believe me.

I can’t stand without brushing by him, so I make it count. My chest presses into his arm and I feel it keenly, as if my nipples have become more sensitive. I fight the gasp, and feel a flood of warmth at my center. An alien feeling, as if I am… hot. Wet. I want to rub my thighs together, or perhaps rub them against _him_. I want pressure _there_ with an almost desperate need.

I shouldn’t want this, but I do.

My voice shakes. “I need to get changed, Potter. Do a girl a favour and turn around.”

“What is this?” He takes one more step back, but he still stares at me. His hand sweeps over the air between us, marking the distance from my head to my toe.

“A dress,” I deadpan. And fine, if he refuses to move, I’ll undress here in front of him. I reach into my bodice and tug out the two soft bags of pudding from a dress that seems overly tight. My fingers graze over my nipples and I stop.

Impossible.

I tug the neckline of my dress out, peering down into it.

Completely and utterly _impossible_.

I rip the dress in my haste to yank it off, tossing it aside so that I stand there in bra and knickers, stockings and heels. I look into the mirror and stare.

I have breasts.

And I don’t have a cock.

“What the bloody hell have you done to me?” I launch myself at Potter, because this has to be _his_ fault. He is the only one here. He catches me, but we both go down with me straddling his hips, my fists pounding against his chest.

“I haven’t done anything!” he protests, catching my hands as he shifts his hips, pressing into me.

My knickers are wet. Soaked. And I am aching beneath them, wanting more of that delicious pressure. I can feel the hard ridge of his prick, can feel that he wants me. Even knowing who I am, even knowing that this _is_ not, can not _possibly_ be real, he _wants_ me.

Potter growls and something changes in his expression, the need naked and hungry. He flips us in one move, his hand ripping away my knickers then yanking down his fly. He is exposed, and it is such a lovely prick, but he doesn’t let me see it for long before he buries it in me in one swift stroke.

It feels so strange to be filled this way. My arse aches, wanting attention, and yet he is already inside of me. We are joined, and I am wet and tight and clinging to him, making small soft sounds as he fucks me. His mouth is pressed to my throat, and he breathes in roughly as if to inhale me. And I catch it again, that scent of loam and ancient earth, of power and hunger, and it sends another flood of warmth to my… my… my _cunt_. Where Potter _fucks me_ ( _oh Merlin don’t stop now this is sodding brilliant… why does it have to be you_?).

Rough fingers dig underneath my bra, baring my small breast so he can play with the nipple, teasing it roughly. My body arches, overwhelmed by sensation and I cry out, feeling something crash through me in rough waves. But Potter doesn’t stop.

He pounds into me, heavy and hard, grunting with every stroke. His hands are on me, one squeezing my breast almost painfully, the other gripping my shoulder. He bites my neck, teases me, tastes me and groans again. I let my hands slide down his back to grip his bum, holding on as I press up and wrap my legs around him. This angle feels so different, but every stroke he makes presses against something that I love. I shake and I feel that sensation building again inside of me.

I know when he comes by the way he growls, the way his body bows over mine, and the way his motions stutter, then stop, as deep inside of me as he can go. I know by the sudden rush of scent that fills my senses until my body contracts around his, as if my own orgasm is yanked out of me by his scent alone. I cling to him as I shudder, and when it is done, we both collapse.

I still have my stockings and heels on, and I am sticky. The knickers and bra are a loss, but I don’t care. That was the weirdest—and quite possibly best—sex I have ever had.

He is heavy against me, and I can feel every deep, shuddering breath.

When he pulls back, I am cold. He kneels there, staring at me. As my body cools, something _changes_ and I know that when I look down, I will see my cock there, flaccid and limp after pleasure, lying against my groin. Potter spots it and frowns, moving to his feet and back away from me.

“What are you?” he asks, voice low and rough.

“That’s never happened before, I assure you,” I respond dryly. I come to my feet more slowly, kicking off the heels and moving carefully around the strange and unexpected aches. I still feel odd, as if part of me didn’t quite go back to normal despite my now flat chest and the return of my bollocks. “Congratulations, Potter, you’ve just successfully shagged away the female virginity I never thought I had.”

He wants to do something. He is a quivering mess of barely withheld aggression, but he manages to get it under control and tuck himself away as pulls up his boxers and trousers.

“Are we done here?” I ask. I doubt he got whatever he originally came for, but whatever that was, it has been lost in the aftershocks.

“Don’t leave Rome,” he says quietly. “We will be watching you, Malfoy. We will be tracking every single person you speak to, and we will be reading any owls you send. You are under official observation by right of the Aurors.”

“You are British,” I remind him pointedly. After all, I came to Rome to escape this exact problem.

He smiles faintly. “And we have been given international jurisdiction to do whatever it takes to apprehend the Dragon Lily. Whether you are her or not, I know you are up to something, Malfoy. You’re always up to something.”

“You just always _think_ I’m up to something.”

“And I’m usually right.” His gaze slips over me, a frown furrowing his brow. “This isn’t normal. It’s obvious you’ve been dabbling in magic beyond what’s legal. I’ll figure you out, Draco Malfoy. And I’ll bring you in. This isn’t over.”

There is something ironic in his statement, because I haven’t dabbled in anything other than an easier way to remove makeup, not since the war. Five years with very little magic, no more than I needed. Every bit of my impersonation is me. Honesty in all appearances. But I say nothing, simply lift one eyebrow and wait until he leaves.

I can still feel his hands on my body, still smell his scent on my skin. Earth and loam, and it arouses me all over again. I want him to come back, and I want him to fuck me. I want Harry Potter.

No, I feel like I _need_ Harry Potter.

And that terrifies me.

#

Dear Hannah,

Thank you very much for the lovely biscuits you sent. Rome has excellent food but nothing is quite like your biscuits. I think I am actually quite tired of gelato. Harry seems to be determined to try every flavour they have. I suppose I ought to be glad for that, since it distracts him from the frustration of us having been in Rome for a month and being no closer to finding our quarry.

Is everything all right at home? I miss you terribly. I continue to hope that we will return home for the holidays, but it is not looking good.

Harry is convinced that Draco Malfoy is involved somehow. He cannot possibly be our quarry, as we are looking for a witch. Although Malfoy dresses as a witch to sing, he is not actually a witch.

Although.

Hannah, you can keep a secret, right?

I think something happened between Malfoy and Harry.

Harry is absolutely positive that some of the time, Malfoy is a witch. Which is impossible, right? He’s a bloke. We would know if he wasn’t. Even if he hadn’t had blokes for roommates in Hogwarts, he’s a pureblood. They never would have been able to keep it quiet if he was sometimes a girl. Although I suppose there might be some curse that could make him turn into a girl sometimes, rather like a werewolf curse. A weregirl? That sounds like something Luna might talk about, only I’m certain it would have a strange name then, like a blubberdinger rather than weregirl. Perhaps I ought to ask her. Or you see her sometimes, don’t you? Perhaps you could bring it up to her, and see if she has heard of something like that happening.

Oh right, I forgot what I was saying about Harry and Malfoy. Harry said he’s positive Malfoy’s a witch some of the time, because he’s seen it. Saw Malfoy naked, with all the proper bits a witch has.

I’m sorry, I know this conversation is terribly improper. I hope you will forgive me.

Anyway, Harry was agitated that night when he came back. But he also hasn’t gone out to pull since. And he’s been at the bar almost every night to see Malfoy sing. He keeps going back, like he expects something to happen, but nothing has.

We haven’t even intercepted any communications recently. It’s as if she just disappeared.

Harry says it’s because Malfoy knows we’re onto him. I’m not sure I agree.

Either way, we’re still in Rome and December has begun. I’ll be owling gifts if I can’t be back in London myself, I promise. Could you possibly do me the favour of bringing gifts to Gran, and to St. Mungo’s, if I’m not able to be there myself?

No matter what, I shall be there to bring in the New Year, even if I can only be there for the one night. I promise.

I love you, Hannah.

Yours always,

Neville

#

After more than a month, Harry has given up any pretense of being unremarkable. When he arrives at the bar, he is handed his usual drink by the bartender, and he makes his way to the usual table in the back. His drink is refilled without asking exactly twice, and he nurses them slowly to make them last without getting pissed.

Harry has a routine now. He is a regular in the bar. And he has come to know the other regulars who are always there to see the Tuxedo Angel sing. Every night goes the same way with the early performance well attended, but fans arrive over the next few hours until the place is full by the time the Angel sings again late.

Her sets have grown longer. At the beginning, he performed two, sometimes three songs, with four on the rare occasion. Now he averages four songs as Harry watches, sometimes as many as six.

Tonight, however, she steps back after the second song, an odd, perplexed expression crossing her face. She presses fingers—delicately tipped with red nails—to her lips for a moment as her eyes widen. Harry watches for the small shadow of her adam’s apple beneath the ribbon as she visibly swallows, something tightening in his chest. He recognizes that expression, that vague sense of panic in those silver eyes. 

She stands there for a long moment before her hand lowers. She steps back to the front of the stage and smiles, leaning forward just a bit. The way her camisole falls is clever, giving the illusion of small, perfect breasts and the idea that the audience might glimpse them if she leaned forward just a bit more. The tuxedo outlines her slim form, the heels elongate her slender legs. She is the perfect picture of boyish femininity, and Harry’s cock fills as he watches her.

Every night he wants her, and every night he can’t have her. Not again.

After all, he knows her secret and Harry Potter isn’t interested in blokes. Not even Draco Malfoy and his perfect breasts and magically appearing fanny.

She begins her third song, voice low and rough, skating over the notes like silken sandpaper. Harry shifts to the edge of his seat, watchful. He sees the moment when her fingers tighten, twisting in the fall of her black skirt. Her face turns away from the audience, her voice momentarily muffled.

Something is wrong. Harry doesn’t just see it, he feels it, catches a bright, sharp scent of what he somehow knows is panic. And as the Tuxedo Angel mumbles her apologies and leaves the stage, he stands and makes his way through the crowd to the back halls.

By the time he gets there, he can feel her panic ebb, hear the murmured voices asking if she is all right, and her low response that she is indeed fine. Harry stands against the wall, eyes closed, just listening to her, trying to tell if she speaks the truth.

He’s worried. Her panic clenches in his gut, and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like that she was afraid, and he doesn’t like that it bothers him.

This is _Malfoy_ , he reminds himself. _Draco Bloody Malfoy_. This isn’t truly some beautiful siren who sings in a pub, it’s just the bloke who made his life a living hell for seven years, and who traded life debts with him at the end of the war. She is no one mystical. She is the enemy. She is quite probably his quarry. He is here to _work_ , not worry.

He feels when someone brushes past him hurriedly, and his eyes open to see someone disappearing down a hallway in the same direction where he hears the distinctive tip-tap of her heels.

Someone is following her.

Harry hears the growl and barely recognizes it as his own voice. He pushes away from the wall and catches up quickly to where the bloke has the Tuxedo Angel backed against the wall.

Harry has only a rudimentary knowledge of Italian. It is enough to get by, day by day, while they are in Rome, but not enough to follow the rapid fire words flowing from this man’s mouth. But he can see from Draco’s expression that what is said is unwanted, and likely crude.

It makes his blood boil. It makes his gut clench. His hands twist into fists and Harry does not think before he lashes out, punching the bloke, then grabbing him to pull him away. The man takes a swing at him in response, but Harry ducks, moving out of the way. Harry’s quick and strong, and knowing Malfoy is watching makes him feel quicker, stronger. He fights to protect what’s _his_. No one can touch the Tuxedo Angel.

No one but Harry.

It is over quickly, and Harry does not even look as the stranger slinks away, his wrist broken, his face bruised. Harry can feel a bruise forming over his ribs; it will need attention later. But not yet. His gaze is settled on where the Angel—Malfoy—is still shrunk back against the wall, the back of one hand over her mouth. She is breathing hard.

“Worried about me?” Harry asks.

“Hardly.” Malfoy’s chin lifts. “I could have taken care of myself, Potter. A stinging hex to the balls is a remarkable deterrent.”

Harry frames her face with his hands, gentle as he looks down. He doesn’t mean to kiss Malfoy, but when he does he catches a scent that inflames him, has him leaning in to claim another kiss, then another. Malfoy moans, and Harry cannot resist, pressing hips to hips. There is no soft cradle this time, only the hard ridge of another man’s prick against his own, but Harry doesn’t care. He needs this, needs _Malfoy_.

His hips rotate, rocking back and forth, rubbing their pricks together despite the clothes between them. When Malfoy groans and tilts her head, Harry’s mouth falls to taste her neck. He nips tender skin, teasing her, growling softly when she twists and moves to increase the pressure between them.

Her movements are almost frantic, and his quicken in response. She presses forward, and he responds with a quick rake of his hips again and again until she cries out, going stiff beneath him. Harry feels it boil up inside of him, his body responding to the rush of musk surrounding them, and his trousers are heavy and sticky with his spent seed.

Her hands press against his chest, and Malfoy shoves Harry away. She rubs her hand across her mouth, and sneers.

“You aren’t any better than he was,” she hisses. “The only difference is that he _wanted_ to get off with me and you actually _don’t_ but you did it anyway. I don’t want to see you here again, Potter. Stop watching me.”

Harry can still feel it, that _thing_ that draws him to her. He can’t forget the feel of her, either last time or this. He can’t forget how she tastes, how she smells. The memory arouses him, fills him with heat. He can’t imagine anyone else touching her. Malfoy is _his_. His fists clench. “You’ve done something to me,” he growls. “A love potion.” It’s the only explanation.

“You’re mad.” Malfoy glares at him. “Why in Merlin’s name would I ever actually _want_ you to fall in love with me, Potter? If I had my way, I’d spell you in love with that arse you threw out of here. The two of you deserve each other.”

She yanks open the door to her dressing room and goes inside, slamming the door behind her. Harry stares at the door, trying to figure out what just happened. It is as if his head clears when she is gone, but at the same time, he can’t stop thinking about her.

Can’t stop thinking about Malfoy.

Harry cleans himself and heads down the hall. He won’t intrude but he’ll watch from a distance, to make sure Malfoy leaves without being accosted again. Harry won’t let anyone harm what’s his.

#

“Darling, what was all that noise?”

Pansy sits on my stool, in front of my dressing table, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette dangling from her fingertips. She taps ash from the end, then takes a long drag, blowing smoke out slowly.

I slip my shoes off and place them in their rack. “Potter,” I say. And that is all I can manage before the odor of her cigarette reaches my nose, and I am overcome.

I find myself, for the second time that night, with my arms wrapped around a waste bin, losing the contents of my stomach. I heave until there is nothing left and I am shaking, and still the scent of smoke unsettles my stomach. “Put that thing out,” I order weakly. “Clear the air. I can’t stand the smell of it.”

The cigarette is gone and the smoke banished in short order. Pansy sits beside where I kneel on the floor, her fingers lightly combing through my hair. “You’re not well, darling,” she murmurs.

“That’s not it.” Which is untrue, of course. I’ve been sick for two weeks, but until tonight I’ve managed to hide it from anyone who might care to know. But nothing seems to agree with me, and it only gets worse as the days go on. Tonight I was nearly destroyed by the stench of strong cologne from a table near the stage, then Pansy’s smoke. “Your cigarettes reek.”

“No more than usual.” She tilts my head back, peering at my face. “You’re too thin,” she decides. “And your eyes are quite sunken beneath all that makeup. How long have you been ill? I can recommend a healer, you know. I’ve one I quite like in Prague. Very circumspect.”

“I don’t need a healer.” I push her hand away and straighten myself out, coming to my feet. It is only Pansy, and I highly doubt she has come to see me naked, so I strip. It amuses me to see the flush rise to her cheeks as she turns her head to look at the wall.

“Of course you don’t, darling, but if you continue to be ill, you might wish to seek one out. There are any number of ailments which can cause recurring nausea and lack of appetite, and some of them are quite dire indeed.” She idly taps her cigarette holder against the table.

Of course some of them are dire. I am quite aware of the long list of potentially deadly ailments for wizards in the modern era. Mazaquin’s Maundering Wasting Disease topped the list of potential suspects for what might ail me when I did my own research. Frankly, if it is that particular disease, I am not entirely certain I wish to know. There is no cure, and the only bright point is that the course of the disease is swift, and short.

“Are you here for a reason?” I hang the dress on the rack and shed my feminine underthings, transforming myself back into a proper wizarding male in pants, trousers and neat robes. “What do you want this time? You do realize that your last favour nearly had Potter killed, and got me fucked for your trouble.”

“Did it?” Her eyebrows rise. “You and Potter?”

I hadn’t meant to tell her that, but now that the kneazle’s out of the bag there is little I can do to hide it. My expression twists sour. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“I suppose that explains why he was frotting against you in the hallway.”

“If you knew what all the noise was, why did you ask?” I glare at her, but my ire doesn’t last. It never does with Pansy. “But I suspect yes, it does. He seems to be having some difficulty coming to terms with my gender, but tends to forget when he’s overcome by passion.” My tone is dry, because I can’t quite consider that _passion_. But overcome is definitely a suitable word. We both were, it seems.

Potter is not the partner I would choose, yet when it happens, I am completely unable to resist. He is the key to my lock, the wing to my dragon. Even now that he is gone, I ache when I think of him.

Pansy snorts softly. “You and Potter,” she murmurs. “Good for you. Do you think you might be able to keep him busy? I’ve something I need to do, and I’d rather he not be sniffing around for it. Once that’s done, I’ll be off for America and shan’t be in your hair any longer.”

“You’re the one he’s looking for.” I know very little of what Potter seeks here in Rome, other than that he suspects me of whatever crimes have been committed. While I don’t normally see Pansy as the sort to inspire an international witch hunt, I could see how it might happen. I suspect there has been a misunderstanding somewhere.

“I assure you, I am innocent of all you might have heard.” She kisses my cheek as she smiles. “Now be a perfect dear and spend some time with your lover. Not quite yet. Next week would actually be perfect.”

“Is there a particular time and date?” I am only half joking when I ask.

“I shall get back to you with that.” She tucks the cigarette holder away into some pocket I can’t see, then frames my face with both her small hands. She kisses first one cheek, then the other. “I shall miss you when I go, but you’ll have to promise to come visit. I won’t want to miss a thing, and I expect I shall quite enjoy being Aunt Pansy.”

She makes no sense, but I smile and nod as if I understand. She is right about one thing: I will miss her when she has left. As frustrating as she can be sometimes, she is still Pansy, and one of my oldest and dearest friends. It won’t be the same without her.

#

10 November, 2003

My dear Neville,

It was quite such a pleasure to hear from you! Hannah tells me that you’ve sent letters before, but I suspect those might still be chasing about after me. I’m in London for the moment, but we shall be setting off again soon. We need to be in the Congo by the end of December, you see, for another attempt to find the Gabbering Glimps. We were there for the solstice, as we thought that perhaps the old writings which referred to the end of the year might refer to when summer turned to fall, but that was quite wrong. So instead we’ve decided that it must either refer to the equinox, when the world dies into the depths of winter, or perhaps to the calendar year, although that’s quite preposterous as I doubt the Gabbering Glimps use the same calendar as we do.

Oh my, do you think it refers to their own calendar? It would certainly explain why they are so rare to sight, if no one knows exactly when the end of their year is. You see, they only appear for a very short time when the year dies, or so the writings say.

And they are such fascinating creatures, too, Neville. Quite tall and thin, much narrower front to back than they are side to side, and able to change their shapes so they might merge with shadows. It is said that they hide in shadows during the year, and only emerge at this special time. I am quite hopeful that we will be able to watch them as they celebrate the new year. My father is quite excited for this article. And Rolf has been such a help.

Did Hannah tell you about Rolf Scamander? He is a wonderful man, and we have traveled all over. Our trip to the Congo is my favorite, although he was fascinating in Tokyo when we sought the Aioi Hyuutsekii. We didn’t manage to find it, unfortunately. Rolf believes it is because Tokyo has become far too Muggle, and the creatures may well be either extinct or hiding. I do hope they are only hiding.

Hannah mentioned that you had run into a strange situation with Draco Malfoy. It sounds as if he might be a victim of the Pelham Pact. Do you know if he might, perhaps, be gay? The Pelham Pact was a curse willingly taken on by several pureblood families in the Middle Ages. In the event that a male was the last of the line and happened to be of aberrant desires (that is their word choice, Neville, not mine, as I do not believe it is at all odd for someone to be interested in someone of the same gender), that male would find a mate of his own gender, and upon meeting them, would be transformed into the female form so that they might mate and have an heir.

Of course, the Pelham family died out sometime during the Renaissance, apparently due to a high number of men who failed to have children, so it is quite possible this pact never worked.

Do you think this could explain what has happened to Draco Malfoy? If so, that would mean that Harry is his mate, and they are bound until Draco produces a child. I do hope Harry is ready for fatherhood.

I think he would be a brilliant father. Do tell him congratulations for me, Neville.

Please take care of yourself. The last time I saw you, I do remember that you were suffering from a surfeit of Serengels. I hope that problem has cleared up.

Love,

Luna

#

Harry sits with paperwork spread out on the table in front of him. He is tired of this hotel room, tired of Rome, tired of being in one place. This case drags on and while he _knows_ how it will end, he cannot see the way to get from here and now to that ending. He knows who the Dragon Lily is, he is sure of it. But he is also sure that as long as he remains in Rome, she (he) will not be comfortable acting, and they will remain in this same limbo.

He doesn’t look up when the owl arrives. It will be for Neville. They are all for Neville, sometimes with notes tucked in for him from Hermione or Ron. Harry has never been good at sending owls, so no one is particularly worried about sending any in return. It doesn’t bother him; he knows that his best mates will still be his best mates when he sees them again.

“What’s a seerehnghel? Serrenjell?” Neville frowns at the paper before setting it down on the table. “Harry, I think we need to talk.”

“Is that from London? Have they intercepted more—” Harry stops speaking when Neville cuts him off with a shake of the head. If it isn’t evidence in their case, he can’t think why Neville is giving him that odd look, both assessing and as if he expects Harry to explode at any moment. Harry’s get a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “It isn’t another bloody paternity suit, is it? That’d be three in the past two years, and I haven’t even been bloody well home in months.” Harry doesn’t know why women keep trying to insist that they are having his babies, when he hasn’t even shagged them. Do they think he’d forget who he shags?

“Not exactly.” Neville drops into the chair opposite Harry. Neville pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes two breaths. Harry watches his shoulders lower slightly, but he still looks tense. “I’ve just heard from Luna,” Neville says. “I asked Hannah to speak to her about something.”

Neville leans back in his chair, cheek turned as if anticipating a blow. It takes a moment for Harry to realize, and when he does, he groans. “Neville, you’re not supposed to be talking about the case with anyone else. You know that.”

“My letters are all warded properly and I’m not saying anything specific enough to get us in trouble,” Neville says quickly. “This is actually sort of personal. Er.” He pauses and scrubs a hand through his hair, his cheeks somewhat pink. “Personal about you. And the case. Sort of.”

Harry has no idea what Neville’s getting at, although the idea of Neville talking about Harry’s personal life doesn’t please him. His tone is sharp when he responds, and he refuses to look at Neville, sorting through papers again instead. “Personal about me? Like what, Nev? What the bloody hell did you want Hannah to pass on to Luna about _me_?”

“Malfoy.”

Neville jumps when Harry’s hands land on the table with a loud thump. “Bloody _hell_ , Neville, that’s classified information and important to the case. What if that’s why she isn’t corresponding—”

“ _He_ ,” Neville says firmly. “Draco Malfoy is a bloke, and that’s it. Well, not entirely it, but most of the time. He can’t be the Dragon Lily. Every report we have say she’s a proper witch, not a female impersonator, so she can’t be Draco.”

Harry’s jaw tightens. This isn’t something he wants to talk about, but at the same time, it’s important. “I told you what I saw,” he says quietly. “There’s no fucking way Malfoy’s _not_ a girl, at least some of the time. He _changed_ , Neville.”

“And that’s what I told Hannah.” Neville holds up a hand quickly to forestall Harry’s objections as he leans forward. “Just hear me out. There’s something called the Pelham Pact, and it’s essentially a curse. Pureblood families took it on centuries ago, in case someone came up, er… deviant… in the family. A bent bloke. It sounds like it only activates when there’s only one bloke left to the line, and he’s the sort that only likes blokes. It turns the bloke into a girl when he’s around his mate, so they’ll, well, reproduce.”

Reproduce.

Two blokes, except one was a girl at the time.

Bloody fucking hell, Harry remembers it all too well: he fucked Draco fucking Malfoy, as a girl, without a sodding bit of protection.

“Are you trying to tell me there’s a curse that turned Draco Malfoy into a girl so I could get him pregnant?” Harry repeats slowly. The sick feeling in his gut doesn’t ease when Neville only nods in response. But at the same time, there’s a twist, a pleased little _twist_ that he filled Malfoy’s belly. That he’s going to have a _baby_. He feels the rush of hunger and desire sweep through him all over again, and he wants to feel Malfoy under him, wants to plough into him, and Harry doesn’t care of Malfoy’s a bloke or a girl or what bits he might have at the same time. He wants to hold him down and fuck him hard and touch that belly and know _his_ baby is growing there.

And he doesn’t want anyone else to touch him. _Ever_.

“If Malfoy’s pregnant, it might not be mine.” After all, who knows how many men Malfoy might turn into a female for. Harry can’t think it’s only him.

“It’s yours.” Neville nods at that, his cheeks still a warm rose. “If you and he—her—well, if the two of you had sex and Malfoy was female at the time, it sounds as if that means you’re his mate. From what Luna says, I think he only gets one. Mate. Bloke who’ll see him as female. So, did you…?”

When Neville’s voice trails off, it sinks in. Yes, yes they did. Harry nods slowly, and hears Neville’s soft _huh_ in response. This is too much, too large an issue for Harry to assimilate. “It was only the once. He might not be pregnant.”

“He probably is.”

Curses with specific results tended to be strong things in the magical world. Harry might not know _this_ curse, but he had heard of this sort of thing. They overrode the strictures of reality and imposed their own rules upon things. There was likely no fertility cycle, no chance involved. The sex is a part of the curse. It likely explains why Harry can’t get Malfoy off his mind, can’t stop thinking about him. Can’t stop going to see him.

Harry doesn’t think about the fact that he has been obsessed with Malfoy since they were young. He refuses to look too closely at their history. This is the curse; it is _only_ the curse.

“Well, it does mean one thing,” Neville says slowly. He is leaning back again, as if expecting something from Harry.

“I’m not going to hit you.” Harry smiles ruefully, but Neville doesn’t relax.

“Malfoy can’t be the Dragon Lily,” Neville reminds him. “He’s only ever a girl for you. But that means he’s innocent.”

Harry laughs softly, shaking his head. “Malfoy’s never innocent. He’s not the Dragon Lily, but I bet he knows who is.” He dropped the papers in his hands back onto the table. “I’m going to shower, Nev. Let’s get some dinner after. Someplace new.”

“Not the bar tonight?”

Harry shakes his head and leaves. Not the bar. Not the bar ever again. Now that he knows he’s being controlled by a spell, Harry refuses to give in.

#

I tell myself that I only look for Potter in the audience because Pansy asked me to. It has been a week since I last saw her, and today I received a note reminding me of the favour she requested. All she wants is that I keep Potter distracted, and that seems simple enough. After all, he has been coming here for weeks now. He sits through my first show, then waits for my second and sits through that as well. I’d call him a lush, except he drinks far too little for that. No, he remains attentive. I am always aware of his attention upon me.

Until tonight.

When I step off the stage, my skin itches and my stomach roils. I am still ill, yet I do not seem to have lost weight, only sleep. I press the heel of my hand to my stomach and go in search of a bit of bread. It is the only thing that calms my digestion, and I begin to think I will look like a baguette before long. I spend my time between shows with my dinner and a glass of water, and when the time comes, I take the stage again.

He still isn’t there.

I search for him with my eyes, letting my gaze rake over the audience, but I already know he is not sitting at any of the tables. I can feel it. When he watches me, I feel the weight of his regard before I see him. We are connected somehow. And tonight I feel his lack keenly.

I had planned four songs, but I only do two, smiling as I curtsey and make my escape. I am offered wine, which I refuse, the thought of it turning my stomach. I don’t want anything this place can give me.

Ironic, since once this was the only place I felt comfortable. It used to be that when I slipped beneath the skin of the Tuxedo Angel, I stepped out of my own and became someone else. It lifted me away from the scars of the past. But not anymore. Now I am anxious, unsettled. I strip quickly and hang my jacket upon its hanger. I place the bags that fill my bra under their charm, leaving them ready for tomorrow, and I toss my lingerie into the hamper to be washed along with the camisole. The trousers are hung neatly as well, and the shoes placed in their rack. I do not bother with my makeup. It will bother my skin later, but I shall be home soon enough and can take care of it then. After all, where else is there to go?

I dress in tight Muggle jeans and a soft grey cashmere jumper. I consider shoes for a moment, then shrink my own and tuck them into my pocket to take home. Instead, I choose a pair of grey heels to match the sweater. They are show shoes, yes, their heels high. But they are also comfortable to walk in, my favorite pair when I need to maintain my equilibrium for an extended set, or when I need to walk amongst the patrons in the bar. They will get me home without my feet burning with a fierce ache.

And they look good on me.

I glance in the mirror, and see that I am trapped somewhere between myself and the Tuxedo Angel in appearance. My hair is still softly curled about my face, the makeup accentuating my features. The shoes change my stance, adding the illusion of soft curves where there are none. It is impossible to tell at a quick glance whether I am feminine or masculine. I like this.

I decide to walk home. It is late, but if someone approaches I do have my wand, so I know I will be safe. I let my stride carry me, let my mind wander as I stroll. The streets are well lit near the bar, but those lights become far between as I move away from the thick bustle of the central wizarding city and into the residential areas. It is no matter. The moon has barely begun to wane and casts her silvered rays down over me as I walk.

There is a pull and I shift direction, ducking down an alleyway that carries me two streets over. When I emerge, something feels more settled. I press a hand to my stomach and pause. I have heard of following one’s gut, but never thought it a literal thing. Yet mine seems to lead me, drawing me down one street then another until I stand in front of an old wizarding hotel that is tucked into a corner of Muggle Rome.

He’s here. I know he’s here, somewhere up on one of those floors, likely with Longbottom.

Until this moment, I had managed to convince myself that he’d finally moved on to another location for his assignment, or that perhaps he had chosen to find his amusements elsewhere. But no, he is most definitely here, in this place.

I go in, and let my feet carry me upstairs until I stand before room 203.

I have no need to see him. No reason to be here.

And yet, I knock.

Longbottom pulls the door open, his eyes going wide to see me. He blinks twice before saying, “Malfoy.” I can’t tell from his tone whether he’s disturbed or trying to alert Potter, but it’s no matter. Longbottom pulls the door wide and motions me in, and I am too polite to decline after having been the one to disturb him after midnight.

Potter looks up from where he sits on the sofa, his brow furrowed. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ll just step out and get… something…” Longbottom leaves before I can close the door, and Potter and I are left alone.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. Perhaps I am here because some instinct guided me. Perhaps I heard someone mention the hotel and room once in the last several weeks. Perhaps it is Pansy’s note, asking me to occupy Potter’s time.

Or perhaps I simply want to be here.

“Is it a problem?” I ask. I sit when he motions for me to do so, settling on the edge of the sofa, my legs crossed at the ankles. I see his gaze drop to my heels, then drift up over my body. There is an ache in my chest and I am afraid to drop my gaze, wondering if I have suddenly sprouted breasts again.

“I don’t know.” It is his turn to look confused. His expression hardens then, and I can almost see him withdraw. “Yes. Yes, it’s a problem. This is magical, Malfoy. You’ve done something—“

“I haven’t done a bloody thing!” I interrupt him, snarling then stopping when he gets up and looms over me.

He puts his hands on either side of me, leaning down and in, his mouth close to mine. I can feel the heat of his body, and I ache for it. Heat builds in my groin and my jeans are tighter than they were before. I’m still male, and I find that a relief. Painful, at the moment, but a relief.

“You’ve bewitched me,” he growls, and I feel that sound down into my gut. The angrier he gets, the more I want him. His nostrils flare, and I see my hunger reflected in his expression.

I don’t have time to think before I am grabbed and twisted. When we land, he sits on the couch and I straddle him, our hips tight together as he devours my mouth. I shift, rubbing us together, and it feels so good, despite the fabric separating us. I want more. Need more. I want to feel him feel me, want to have him deep inside of me before he loses control. I pull at his shirt, frantic to yank it over his head, and I toss it aside. Skin beneath my fingertips is bliss, and he traps my hands there, looking down to see my red-tipped nails.

Red Carmine, the same shade as the splotch of lipstick that has worn away on his mouth. I can see myself there, staining him. Claiming him as much as I feel like he has claimed me.

“I want you to fuck me,” I say into the silence, and his hands tighten over mine. And I wait as he stares at me, those green eyes flashing hunger and anger and fear.

I am praying for him to answer, praying for him to peel my clothes off and throw me on the sofa and thrust into me. Longbottom could be back at any moment, and I don’t care. I just want this wait to end. I need Potter, and I need him now.

He reaches for me, fingertips slipping beneath the edge of my jumper, warm and rough in contrast to the soft knit of the cashmere. He sighs to feel me, lifting the jumper carefully over my head.

His mouth closes over my nipple, just as the world explodes.

#

Monday, 17 November, 2003

London, England

This report is an account of the events of the night of 11 November, 2003 within the wizarding district of Rome, Italy.

At approximately half past one in the morning, an explosion was both heard and felt from our suite in the hotel. At the time of the explosion, the suspect, Draco Malfoy, was already in the custody of Auror Potter. After some discussion, Auror Potter and I determined that the best course of action was for us to bring Mr. Malfoy with us to the explosion site so that we could investigate.

Once at the site, we joined the team of Italian Aurors that had been dispatched. Auror Lucenzo delivered a flower to Auror Potter which I could easily identify as a clear example of the rare Dragon Lily bloom. We agreed that if the explosion had not been set by our quarry, the person who set the explosion was most certainly aware of the Dragon Lily and our presence here, and intended to blame the destruction on her.

It was at this point that Mr. Malfoy became violently ill.

Mr. Malfoy was taken into custody by the Italian Aurors and a healer was asked to check him for injury or illness. While Mr. Malfoy was not shackled, as we have no proof that he is involved with the Dragon Lily, Auror Potter did insist quite strongly that Mr. Malfoy remain with the Aurors for later questioning. Mr. Malfoy was in no condition to disagree.

All evidence discovered at the scene was sent back to London the following day for investigation, in preparation for our own return. The remnants of the spell set to explode were discovered, and it was determined that it could have been set in place any time within the prior twenty-four to forty-eight hours, and a spelled timer set to choose the exact moment of the explosion. There were no trace magics found to determine who might have cast the spell or identify a known wand, but there were traces of makeup on the pieces of the device found.

Those traces have been identified as belonging to Draco Malfoy. Auror Potter grew suspicious due to the colour of the trace which is apparently a signature shade always utilized by Mr. Malfoy in his role as the Tuxedo Angel. The colour is Red Carmine.

Mr. Malfoy refused to discuss the issue, and as such was officially arrested by the British Ministry, and plans were made to return him to London with Auror Potter and myself, arriving, as you know, just yesterday, on the evening of 16 November, 2003.

Due to his continued ill health, as well as taking into account his good behaviour, Draco Malfoy will not be remanded to Azkaban. He will be quartered in the high security ward at St. Mungo’s as reserved for ill or injured prisoners. At this time, there is a concern that the illness may be feigned, or brought on by collusion with the Dragon Lily, perhaps in retribution for a perceived chance that he might choose to ally himself with the Aurors and turn evidence on the Dragon Lily in. However, that is not the case.

Draco Malfoy continues to maintain that he is innocent, and that he has no knowledge of the Dragon Lily. However, he seemed unsurprised by the explosion, and in fact seemed somewhat resigned to the fact that it had happened. When it was discovered that the explosion was a ruse to disguise thievery in two other locations, he was equally unsurprised, and one might say he was in fact impressed at the audacity of the witch in question.

Prior to now, I have maintained an opinion that Draco Malfoy might be innocent, but I find myself agreeing with Auror Potter: Mr. Malfoy knows more than he is telling. I understand your concerns in this matter, as regards past history between Mr. Malfoy and Auror Potter, but I believe there is enough evidence to ensure that Mr. Malfoy has some knowledge. While it may not require us to keep him in custody in an ongoing manner, it certainly bears watching. Perhaps he should be remanded into Auror Potter’s private custody.

A catalog of all items removed from both the Rome branch of Gringotts and the Vatican has been enclosed. While items of purely monetary value, including coin, were the primary target at Gringotts, there were two artifacts stolen from that location, in addition to the three from the Vatican. Details are on the attached inventory, however, one consistent link between the artifacts stands out as obvious: all articles are significantly Light artifacts. We do not know at this time if these items have been stolen in order to use them for some means which has the potential to be an attempt at good, or if they have been taken to ensure that they cannot be used against Dark magic.

Given the past history of the Dragon Lily, one assumes the latter. But of course, a case is not built upon assumptions; it is built upon a strong basis in evidence and fact.

An investigation into Mr. Malfoy’s symptoms was requested, and a current chart from his healer in Rome has been included. In summary, according to the healer, he may be suffering under simple food poisoning that has lingered, or he may have caught any number of illnesses or be the subject of a hex or minor curse. Mr. Malfoy has been unable to eat consistently, and often finds himself vomiting. His sleep has been disrupted, he complains of aches and pains, and his dreams are vivid. There are other symptoms, but as they seem personal, I shall leave them for the report. At this time, there is no definite conclusion drawn. The healers at St. Mungo’s will continue to observe him, and will prepare a report for you regarding their findings and their recommendations for further tests.

At this time, I should like to request Tuesday, 17 November, as a personal day for myself and for Auror Potter. He has requested a day to sleep and for myself, I should like to see my girlfriend. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Auror Neville F. Longbottom

#

Harry has always hated waiting. Perhaps that is a part of what made him a Gryffindor. He longs to rush in headlong and heedless and just _fix_ things. But not everything can be fixed like that, and not everything can be finished so simply. These long cases wear on him, and after two weeks of waiting, Draco Malfoy wears on him even more.

In the meantime, Harry has done what he knows he needs to do. He requested every book on ancient pureblood lines that he could from the Auror library, investigating this pact that Luna had mentioned. He met with her to ask her for her sources, and has read those as well.

In the end, there is only one thing he can conclude: Luna Lovegood is right. This Pelham Pact is real, and Draco Malfoy is quite likely pregnant with Harry’s child. All that is left is for the diagnosis to be confirmed.

When Harry pushes open the door to Malfoy’s room, the other man is dressed, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. He glances up, spots Harry, and looks away again. “Come to get me, have you?” Malfoy says dryly. “I’ve been told that I’ll be going home with you this afternoon, in _custody_.”

“You will.” Harry stands just inside the door and leans against the wall, arms crossed. He can feel Malfoy, even from here, and he has no idea how he will handle keeping Malfoy with him in his home. He does not want to be so close to Malfoy, but the Ministry has agreed that Malfoy is too ill for Azkaban, and has done nothing they can sentence him for. Thus, personal custody, as Malfoy has no place else to go. “Once your results are delivered. I was told you’ll be hearing the final tests this afternoon.”

“So that I might continue to be the grand mystery?” Malfoy’s voice lilts up, the tilt echoed by the lift of one eyebrow. “You know they have absolutely no idea what is wrong with me, Potter.”

“I do.” Harry’s voice is flat. He watches Malfoy, trying to see if he can tell, if there is any outward sign yet. But no, Malfoy looks too thin, too pale, and it frustrates Harry. He steps in close, palming the nape of Malfoy’s neck, turning him to look up. “I’m taking you out to eat.”

“There’s no point.” Malfoy’s eyes are wide, dark blown pupils with silver rims. His lips are wet, and Harry can’t resist; he claims a kiss, and feels that one point of contact throughout his body, making him ache with hunger.

If the healer weren’t coming, Harry might strip Malfoy and fuck him right here, the need is that strong. There is no way he can resist him night after night in his home. 

“I have something that will make you feel better.” Harry means to take out the chews that Luna gave him, guaranteed to help with morning sickness, but Malfoy’s low, rough chuckle stops him and instead he gathers him closer. He wants to feel that body along his, wants to slide his hands down Malfoy’s side, wants to tug at the carefully tucked in button down shirt so he can touch the skin that hides beneath.

A soft cough from the door, and Harry jumps back. His face is hot, and he wonders how Malfoy can appear so unruffled, his hair curling around his face in a way that makes him seem both elegant and pretty all at once. Harry schools his expression to something that he hopes is blank.

“I have the results of your final tests, Mr. Malfoy. Auror Potter, if you could step out—”

“I’ll be staying,” Harry says firmly. “As the Auror in charge of Mr. Malfoy’s official health, safety, and custody, these tests constitute official business and must be included in my report.”

“I don’t care if he’s here or not,” Malfoy says slowly, tucking in his shirt as if he’d been merely interrupted while clothing himself, rather than undressed after the fact. “If you have something useful to say this time, I’d appreciate hearing it.”

The healer casts a glance at Harry, then motions to the bed. He waits until Malfoy sits, then pulls up a chair of his own. “First, Mr. Malfoy, I’d like to make you aware of our safe witches program.” He opens a folder and withdraws one pamphlet, opening it for Malfoy to easily see what is written there. “If, at any time, you feel unsafe, you may contact our office and one of our healers and a Hit Wizard will be there immediately to bring you back to St. Mungo’s. Any time, day or night, our owlery is always monitored, and our Floo will always be open for calls.”

Malfoy blinks. “I’m not a witch.”

The healer smiles thinly. “I do understand that, Mr. Malfoy. However, this is an unusual situation, and despite the fact that you are indeed male, we must extend all courtesies to you that we would extend to any pregnant witch in the same circumstances.”

Harry can see that the healer doesn’t trust him. That he doesn’t trust the Ministry to care for a pregnant suspect. “I’m not going to hurt him,” he says quietly.

“Pregnant?” Malfoy breaks his own silence when he pushes up off the bed, coming to his feet with his hands up. The healer pushes his own chair back, out of range as Malfoy turns to stare at Harry. “Your fault. This is entirely your fault, and bloody hell, you _knew_.”

“I suspected.” Harry’s hands come up just in time to catch Malfoy when he throws himself at him. Harry grabs his wrists, holding him so he can’t hit him, but that doesn’t stop Malfoy from twisting in his grasp, trying to kick him, trying to hurt him somehow as he yells incoherent things.

Harry’s arms go around Malfoy and he holds him tightly, waiting for the rage to fade, waiting for it to slip away. When Malfoy shudders and goes limp in his arms, Harry feels the gulp of a sob and a sudden dampness on his shoulder. Harry tightens his grip, his arms stroking down Malfoy’s back.

Somewhere in the past two weeks, he has become accustomed to this idea. Somehow it has become normal. Expected. Harry whispers nonsense as Malfoy is lost to tears, and tries to comfort him. After all, Malfoy is carrying his child. They are linked, somehow. Bound.

Malfoy is his.

#

I don’t want to be what I have become, and yet, here I am. In some strange way, I am content. November has passed into December and I am still at Potter’s house. I am still in custody. I am still ill on occasion, although that is less often as time goes on.

I have yet to be in Potter’s bed.

It isn’t from lack of hunger or desire. I see it when he looks at me. There have been times when he has pinned me against the wall and snogged me thoroughly. We have rubbed off against each other, still dressed in our trousers. When he gives me that _look_ , I catch his scent as it rises, and all I want to do is present myself. Give myself to him.

I can’t hate him any more. I need him too much, and the worst of it is that I can sense this child growing within me— _our_ child—and I am pleased that it ties him to me. When he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around me, his hands gentle on the tiny swell of my abdomen, I feel safe.

I wonder if it can happen again. If, after I have this child, will my body change for him again?

Will he want me more, if I no longer have a prick to scare him away?

What’s terrifying to me is that I want it. If I knew, for certain, that it would not harm my child, I would change for him again right now. I would be what he needs and I would take whatever he will give me for it.

I want more than desperate hand jobs in the hallway when he happens to get too close to me and cannot resist.

I may not have Harry Potter himself, but I have his home, and slowly it becomes mine as well. I am not allowed to step outside the doors of Twelve Grimmauld Place, so instead I bring my world inside.

On the night when my own clothes arrive from Rome, I meet Potter at the door. I am wearing a blue camisole, the colour shimmering and stark against my pale skin. It is tucked into the tuxedo trousers, and the jacket frames me perfectly. All my heels have arrived, but I choose to meet him barefoot, my toes tipped in a blue that matches the camisole, and the varnish on my fingernails as well.

Not Red Carmine. That colour has been tarnished by its use in the explosion. I do not know how _my_ lipstick came to be a part of that, but I have my suspicions. Nothing I will voice, as they are just suspicions and nothing more. And so, I stay here, under scrutiny, since I can tell them nothing of value.

When he sees me, his eyes go wide and dark, and I smile because I can tell I have made Potter lose control. We are on the floor before I can think, and he stretches out over me, our hips pressed together. His hands slide under my camisole, pushing it up to bare the edge of my bra. My head tilts back as I moan, rubbing myself against him. He undoes the clasp and pushes my bra wide, but I haven’t filled it, and he stops. His fingers skate over my flat chest, and he pulls back, body tense.

I want him to want me just like this. I want him to take me as I am, not just as I can be for him. Instead his hands glide lower, over my abdomen, feeling the small swell. I arch up into his touch and he stops, staring at me.

Then he pulls away, crouched as he watches me. “I take it your shipment from Rome arrived,” he says quietly.

I nod, and try to ignore the tight ache in my groin. “It did. Is there any further news on the case?”

He shakes his head, and for a long moment we sit there, frozen in space.

I want him. I could swear he wants me. But he resists and I won’t beg, no matter how much I want to. His nostrils flare and I wonder if he’s changed his mind, but then he pushes himself to stand and offers me a hand to do the same. I fasten the bra and tug my camisole back into place, and I am back in control again.

“Why are you dressed like that?” he asks, a frown furrowing his brow.

“I thought you might enjoy it,” I let my voice drawl. “You certainly came to see me sing often enough. Or perhaps you were merely there for my voice, not the image I presented. Or is it that you were simply waiting to see if I might sprout breasts again?”

“I’m going to bed.”

He leaves without another word, and I am left standing in the entryway, the space warmed only by the fire. I am aching and hungry and quite honestly, I am lonely as well. I had an entire life in Rome, and now I have Harry Potter, and he is my whole world.

A tap on the window catches my attention, and I open it to let a tiny owl in. I recognize her—Pansy’s Petalswift. She perches on my shoulder, nuzzling my cheek while I read the attached letter.

There are no words when I first unfold the paper, and I smile before I murmur the word I know will show her letters. It is a spell we devised long ago, so we could write to each other in class. Once we have both activated the spell, my words will appear to her, and hers to me.

It also means she is somewhere near; while the words will work across some distance, they will not travel between here and the States. Pansy is in England, and quite likely in London itself.

_Dearest Draco. Wherever have you gone?_

I consider carefully before setting pen to paper. _I am in custody at Potter’s. And no, I shall not tell you the place. I thought you had gone to the States and given up whatever it was you were involved with._

Petalswift pecks my ear, and I summon the treats and give her one. She is small enough that it will take her some time to enjoy it. As I scritch the top of her head, more words appear.

_Not yet, not yet, although I do hope to leave soon. I have some unfinished business, and I do believe you are just the man to help me. Will you be attending the Ministry holiday ball to be held in a week?_

This response requires no thought. _I am a prisoner, darling, not a date. I highly doubt I will be attending a party_.

I can imagine her expression, that irritable little moue as her pug nose wrinkles. I have known her so long, I can see her in my mind’s eye as she writes, and fresh words appear. _You are far more to Potter than a date, dearest. I am aware of the Pact; my great-grandfather was the last of his line, and of deviant behaviour. He carried my grandfather. So please, do not deny your attraction and do ensure that you are there at the party. I shall need your help._

The last time she needed my help, something exploded. I do not think this would be a wise idea. On the other hand, it’s Pansy. She is my oldest friend, and she has always been loyal to me, no matter what has happened in our lives. I do love her.

_Promise me_ , I write. _Nothing will explode_.

Her words come back as if she were writing before I finished. _I promise, dearest. Additionally, I will promise that no harm will come to Potter._

What is one more guest at a ball? With a sigh, I put pen to paper. _Very well. I shall let you know as soon as I know that I shall be in attendance_.

The paper goes silent, and our words vanish with a softly uttered spell. I fold the paper and put it away; I do not need it again until I have more information.

Dinner waits in the kitchen, laid under charms to keep it warm. I go to parcel it out on plates, putting Potter’s aside once it’s set and charming it again to stay fresh. I am setting rice on my own plate when I hear footsteps, and arms wrap around me from behind.

He pulls me back against his chest, his cheek against mine, hands on my belly. My eyes close, drinking in his strength and warmth in this rare moment of peace.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

It’s at times like these when I can believe that we aren’t simply Potter and Malfoy. I can imagine that we are a couple, that we are _something_ more than two men bound by some strange curse and a child neither of us ever wanted. He noses my throat, and my head tilts as I moan softly. “Don’t tease, Potter,” I snap, my voice low. “I know the only thing you want of me is the child.”

He is silent then, and I take that as agreement. I disengage myself from him with care, and hand him his plate. “We should eat.”

He could take this moment to change things, to say he wants more than our child. To tell me that he wants me. I can see that his body does, but he resists every time, and I hate to say how much I want _him_. Our fingers brush as he takes the plate, and for a fleeting moment he lingers.

Then he turns and takes his plate into the dining room. I follow, and we eat in silence.

For what it’s worth, this is now my life, and my home.

#

Dear Hannah,

I know I already spoke to you about this last night, but I wanted to make a formal, proper invitation. Will you do me the honor of accompanying me to the Ministry holiday ball on Saturday, 20 December?

I do realize that this is short notice, but I am so excited that you have agreed to be my fiancée. I want to show everyone your ring, and show them the ring that you have given me in return. I love you dearly, and I look forward to when we can be introduced as husband and wife.

I think that we will share a table with Harry and Draco. We are calling him Draco now, which is somewhat strange but also polite since he’s living in Harry’s house. Technically he’s still in custody, but I don’t know if anyone thinks of it exactly that way anymore. I do not think anyone else wishes to share a table with Harry because Draco will accompany him. It is as if they are offended that Harry treats Draco well.

I think they are starting to get on well enough. They fight less, at least they have fought less when I’ve been over for dinner. Draco has settled in and takes care of the house, which is odd to see. He can’t stand clutter, nor dust, so the place is spotless. He’s feeling a good deal better, too. He said that the fatter he gets, the better he feels, but he’s really not showing much. He simply isn’t horribly thin anymore.

I ought to warn you, sometimes Draco does wear his Tuxedo Angel clothing around the house. I don’t know if he will wear it out of the house. I wonder if he thinks Harry won’t care for him unless he becomes her. I don’t think he gives Harry enough credit.

I don’t think Harry gives himself much credit either.

It’s strange to think that Harry’s going to be a father with Draco Malfoy, isn’t it? But it is what it is, and we all must make do. I think that they might be good together, if they can make it work.

I also think Harry still suspects something, even though we’ve as much as proven Draco’s innocence. Not enough to get him out of custody, and that’s enough to make Harry think.

I don’t think Harry would know what to do with himself if he couldn’t suspect Malfoy. It’s such a part of who he has always been. Maybe we ought to’ve seen this coming, the way Harry used to follow him around. That hasn’t changed.

I promise that we won’t talk about work all night. And I promise that I will dance with you. I suspect Draco would dance with you as well; I doubt Harry will dance with him, and I think he would like to do so. I won’t be jealous if you would like to dance with him; I suspect he is also much better at it than I, and wouldn’t damage your toes.

I love you, Hannah. I look forward to your company at the Ball.

Yours always,

Neville

#

Harry can’t say so, but he is proud to enter the ball with Draco Malfoy on his arm. Harry wears new dress robes, as chosen by Draco on an outing a week before. They are traditional, in a deep grey that could almost be black, and they lend Harry an air of authority while making his eyes sparkle a brighter green. Draco’s robes are a European cut, still loose but seeming somehow more form fitting; with every step they move, highlighting the faint swell of his abdomen. Harry should be embarrassed by the looks they receive as he escorts his pregnant not-quite-lover and prisoner. Instead he is proud.

His hand falls to the small of Draco’s back, directing them through the crowd, pausing to greet others and introduce themselves. Harry lets his fingers flatten, wishing he could touch skin. He wants to make contact, and just that thought makes him ache.

It is harder every day to resist the pull to Draco. They have grown to be some sort of friends, Harry thinks. They haven’t spoken of it, but Draco meets him at the Floo when he comes home. Dinner is ready, candles lit on the table. His bed is always made, his room fresh. Sometimes a bath is drawn, as if Draco knows when the day has been rough. And there are nights when Harry goes upstairs to change and calls for Draco, helping him into a warm tub to relax before dinner.

It is hard to see him there, naked in the water, that small curve of his belly calling to Harry to touch him. 

“I’m hungry,” Draco murmurs, and there is a soft line of laughter under the words.

Harry’s cheeks are warm as he turns to look at Draco, standing so close. Harry’s arm slides around Draco’s waist as he turns towards him, pulling him closer. He kisses him then, standing right there in front of everyone he works with, every important politician in wizarding Britain not to mention several from Europe and Asia as well. Harry kisses Draco slow and deep, not caring that others watch. All he can think is that he needs to taste Draco, needs to claim him so that _everyone_ knows who he belongs to.

And Draco kisses back hungrily, as if he’d show the same. It goes both ways, Harry thinks. Whatever Harry feels, this visceral pull, Draco feels it too.

Harry wonders if Draco also feels the quick thud of his heartbeat, the way it speeds up when he comes home to find Draco there. Whether he feels the sudden terror that this could change at any moment, that they could be taken away from each other.

Draco is still under suspicion, and for the first time in his life, Harry does not want him to be guilty. All Harry wants is for Draco to be safe.

“I’m still hungry,” Draco whispers against Harry’s lips. “Do you think you’ve made enough of a spectacle of us and now I might perhaps go find something to eat?”

“Call me if you need anything,” Harry tells him firmly. “If anyone bothers you, remind them you’re here with me. I won’t tolerate any abuse.”

Draco’s laugh catches in Harry’s chest, twisting there in warm and pleasant ways. “I’ll be fine,” he says, and when he kisses Harry’s cheek it seems familiar and fond, like an old married couple parting ways for just a moment.

Harry’s gaze lingers on Draco as he walks away, and his hands clench while he reminds himself that he doesn’t need to follow.

“Never thought I’d see it, you and Malfoy.”

“ _Ronald_.”

Harry laughs as he turns to greet his best and oldest friends. He claps Ron on the shoulder, then embraces Hermione awkwardly, her pregnant stomach taking up the space between them and making it difficult to get his arms around her properly. He settles for kissing her cheeks instead after the hug fails. “It’s good to see you both.” He doesn’t say anything about Ron’s comment. Harry never thought he’d see it either, and while he’s starting to accept it, he can’t _explain_ it.

Of course, he realizes that probably won’t keep them from talking about it.

“You look good, Harry. It’s obvious you’re happy with him.” Hermione holds his hands and leans back, looking at him critically. “You’re not as thin as you were for a while there, and you’ve got colour in your cheeks. Those robes look good on you. New?”

“Expensive,” Ron said. “They’ve got custom tailor written all over them, I’m thinking, rather than fresh off the rack. Are you turning into a ponce, Harry? I don’t know what I’ll think if you turn out to be a pompous git like Malfoy.”

“He’s not a git.” Harry means to address the subject of the robes, but instead he finds himself defending Draco, the words quick and sharp. Ron’s eyes widen, then narrow, but he stays silent as Hermione places a hand on his arm.

“We’re not going to insult him,” Hermione says firmly. “Or you. I’m glad to see you happy.”

That’s the second time she’s said that, and Harry has to stop and think: is he happy? Is that what it means when he looks forward to seeing Draco after work? When he worries that Draco might not be there? Content, perhaps, in a strange way that includes the daily frustration of wanting something more than he understands. For reasons he doesn’t understand.

“Although I never knew you were bent, mate.” Ron slaps him on the back. “It explains a lot though, doesn’t it?”

“Like what?” Harry glares at him. “I never thought I was, either. I’m not bent.”

Ron’s nose wrinkles slightly as he points out, “Harry. Mate. You’re with a bloke. In fact, you’ve gone and gotten a bloke up the duff. That’s pretty much the definition of bent.”

Harry’s gaze drifts to the buffet where he can just barely spot a flash of white-blonde hair. His hand clenches, releasing only when he decides that yes, that’s Draco, he’s fine and in sight despite the crowds milling around them. By the time he looks back at Ron, his friend is shaking his head.

“You’ve got it bad, mate,” Ron says. “But we’ll be in it together. Just think, our kids will be together in the same class at Hogwarts. And won’t Malfoy be horrified when his son’s put in Gryffindor?”

“Their son could just as well end up in Slytherin,” Hermione reminds him, laughing when Ron scowls. “Just like our child could.”

“Or Ravenclaw.” Luna’s voice is soft and mild as she joins them. “Hullo, Harry. I just saw Draco, and he is looking well. It seems the Pact agrees with you. I thought it might. You two always have seemed particularly suited to each other.”

“Just how long ago did everyone decide I was gay?” Harry still doesn’t think he’s gay necessarily, because other than Draco he can’t remember ever looking at another bloke. On the other hand, he has never been as fascinated by _anyone_ as he has by Draco.

“Ginny asked about it back in Hogwarts,” Luna muses. “Before you dated Cho. Even once after that, during sixth year, she wondered. You always were so busy watching Draco. And now here you are.” She smiles brightly. “It seems Ginny was right after all, doesn’t it? Have you seen Neville? I wanted to offer him my congratulations. I’ve heard Hannah gave him a ring.”

“I thought Neville gave her a ring?” Ron looks confused, and Harry has to laugh.

“They both asked each other. Neville was waiting until we were back, and I guess Hannah started to worry he’d never get around to it, or that he’d forget. So they’ve both got rings,” Harry explains. He’d heard the story as soon as Neville got back to the office afterwards, and had seen the heavy ring on Neville’s finger. He is pleased for his partner, and is looking forward to standing up for him at the wedding.

“Oh, I see them.” Luna points off to one corner, and Harry’s eyes follow her gesture. Neville and Hannah stand by the corner of the buffet table, talking to someone Harry doesn’t recognize.

Harry frowns, something twisting in his gut. Where’s Draco?

His gaze sweeps the length of the table, seeking that familiar bright hair, or the cut of his robes.

Nothing.

Tension shivers through him, like the sour scent of rusty metal. Something’s wrong.

“You alright there, mate?” Ron touches his shoulder and Harry jerks back with a growl. He can see Neville heading towards them as Luna passes him. They turn together in the midst of the crowd, exchanging words and pleasantries before Luna moves on to join Hannah and Neville approaches Harry.

But there is still no sign of Draco.

It makes Harry’s skin itch. When Ron says something again, Harry doesn’t hear the words, only the concern and he answers with a low snarl. “Draco’s gone.”

“Bloody hell, you never should’ve trusted the git, bringing him here so he could pull a runner.” Ron shakes his head. “We’ll find him, mate, and get him back into custody.”

“That isn’t it.” The tension is rising, and suddenly Harry is sure that something is _wrong_. Wherever Draco is, he doesn’t want to be there. Harry twists, turns, tries to find the right direction to go. When he stalks off, he knocks a chair over and just keeps going, pushing things and people out of his way.

Draco’s missing, and Harry can’t rest until he knows he’s safe.

#

“Don’t wrinkle my robes.” I speak slowly, forcing myself calm despite the hammering of my heart that I feel positive they must be able to hear. This isn’t how I planned for the evening to go. “Pansy, darling, do please tell your goon to unhand my robes. This particular silk shows creases far too easily.”

Dolohov releases me, but I don’t have any illusion that it is because I ordered him to. I feel the magic wrap around me, roughly shoving me back against the wall in this tiny room. Air goes out of my lungs, and I want to touch my belly, check my baby. It is too soon, too small for me to feel it, and sudden terror twists in my chest that they will hurt it.

“Pans…”

“We’re not going to hurt you, dearest.” Pansy’s fingers trail over my cheek. “You or your little one. All we need is for Potter to come find you, then we can take care of him.”

A chill in my gut. “You promised you wouldn’t harm him.”

Her smile is full of overly sweet teeth, an expression I have never seen directed towards me. “I lied,” she whispers. “And you believed me because that is what you do, my dearest one. You _trust_ me.”

“And she lies so well, does she not?” Dolohov tangles a fist in her dark hair and turns her head and she kisses him.

Pansy kisses him as if her life depended on it. As if he were the only thing between her and drowning, or perhaps as if she drowns in him instead. She clings to him, and for a moment I wonder if she can possibly distract him that much, as it seems she has forgotten me entirely.

He, however, has not.

He keeps one arm about her shoulder, tucking her in against his side. “She is so well-behaved, is she not?” Dolohov asks, his fingers stroking over her arm. “And she lies so well. She is the perfect little spy, and better yet, she has you in the palm of her hand. Having her is like finding I have two people working for me, not one.”

She’s the Dragon Lily. It isn’t a relief to know I’m right, because now I _have_ to say something to Harry. I have to make a choice between my oldest friend and the man I—it’s not a choice I want to make.

Magic wraps around me, and I’m slammed backwards, held against the wall. My head spins from the impact and I feel ill. Panic wraps around my chest, and I want to curl up but I’m held in place.

“Don’t even think about turning her in,” Dolohov says softly. “Once we’re done here, we’ll be leaving, and you’ll be left to clean up the mess.”

“What makes you think I’ll do that for you?” I hate to say it, hate to think that I’ll abandon Pansy, but if they leave this to me I’ll be sent to Azkaban. My child and I will both die, and Harry—he’ll never forgive me.

I can’t handle that thought. But I can’t lose Pansy either.

Magic tightens at my throat, grips my jaw and forces my head back. Breathing hurts, and fingers dig into the tender skin beneath my jaw. The pain masks the attack when it comes, tendrils of control burrowing into my mind, twisting up my thoughts, trying to force me into something that I’m not.

He’s good.

I’m better.

It isn’t easy to force him out, but I am a good Occlumens. Perhaps a great one. I had to work to keep Dumbledore out, although it turned out that he knew everything in the end. But I was strong enough to do what I had to do, and to keep as many people in the dark during my sixth year that I could.

I would have lied to Voldemort himself if I had to.

I feel his Imperius Curse slip away from me, momentarily sticking like cobwebs over my head and shoulders before it falls free, and I shiver. He makes a noise, and I have a moment to see fury flash in his expression before I am turned and slammed into the wall again.

I cry out, and in the brief moment of freedom, I curl myself tight, protecting my abdomen. He can do anything he wants to me, but I won’t let him harm my child.

I see Pansy out of the corner of my eye and she just stands there, her smile bland as she watches Dolohov torture me. I can keep him out of my mind, but I can’t keep him from controlling my body. All I can do is stay limp and try to protect myself as best I can while he and his magic try to destroy me.

It hurts so much, I can’t keep from screaming. I want Harry to come for me, to help me, and at the same time, I want him to stay away. Dolohov will kill him, or worse yet, he will have Pansy kill him. Or me, if he can beat me senseless enough to allow him in my mind.

But in the end, instinct wins out over preservation and I call out for Harry with everything I am. I need him. And he will come. I know he will.

#

Hannah,

I am sorry this note is so abrupt. This napkin was all I could find to write on. Hermione has said she will ensure that you are quite all right, and that you get home safely if need be. I know I promised to stay with you throughout the evening, but something has come up.

Draco has gone missing, and Harry is frantic, ready to tear this place apart to find him. I have to follow him.

Yours always,

Neville

#

Neville tries to convince Harry that just because he can’t see Draco, it doesn’t mean he’s in trouble, but Harry knows better. He can feel Draco’s pain, feel his terror, and with every fresh shiver of dread, Harry needs to find him more.

“He’s just likely in one of the back rooms, having a bit of a rest. He gets tired now, doesn’t he?” Neville says quietly, his hand on Harry’s arm as if to slow him down.

Harry shrugs the touch away. “He’s not, Nev. He’s in pain and he’s scared, and he needs help.” His voice is low, almost a growl. Harry can’t think straight; Draco fills his every thought. He pushes Neville away, rougher than he means to be, then shoves his way through the crowd. 

He doesn’t know where he is going in the Ministry, only that he goes there and that it is the right direction. His _mate_ is in trouble. Draco is _his_ and Harry has to protect him. Take care of him. For a fleeting moment, the idea of the _worst_ flickers through Harry’s mind and he doesn’t know what he would do if something happened. If he were to lose Draco and their child… the idea fills him with terror of his own.

He knows how he feels about Draco. He doesn’t think _that_ word, not specifically, but he feels it, warm and solid and holding onto his heart. It is still drowned out by louder thoughts of need and want and fear.

Neville is close behind as Harry slips into the hallway, his steps sure. He is slower now, making sure to stay quiet. He is calculating. Careful. He will not risk Draco’s safety nor the safety of their child.

But when he hears the scream—the shrill, piercing cry for help—Harry sees red. He rushes forward, forgetting Neville, forgetting safety, and throws open the door to the next room on the hallway.

_Dolohov_.

Harry takes it all in just a moment, Auror trained senses taking over. Dolohov, standing with his wand out. Draco, with his body curled tightly, shrieking in pain. Pansy, sitting on the arm of a chair, looking at her nail varnish as if nothing of interest is happening at all.

Dolohov looks over and smiles. “So pleasant to see you again, Auror Potter. Pansy, my dear, _kill him_.”

Neville shoves Harry out of the way as the curse flies over his head. He knows that green. Pansy didn’t even hesitate, the killing curse falling from her lips as if she casts it daily.

She looks almost bored, an irritable moue twisting her lips when she spots Harry and Neville tangled on the ground. “You never were easy to kill, were you, Potter?”

“I’ve got her,” Neville says quietly. “You take the bloke.”

_Dolohov_. Harry will explain later that he has met Dolohov. That Dolohov has tried to kill him once already. But things are clicking into place in his mind: Pansy must be the Dragon Lily, and it was she who tried to have Harry killed. And Draco… he protected Pansy. Despite everything that has happened between Harry and Draco, he still protected someone who wants to kill Harry.

It makes Harry sick to his stomach to think of it. Betrayed by someone he has come to—no, not that word. He can’t think it, not now.

Now, everything has to be about taking down Dolohov. No matter what Harry thinks, his gut still churns with each pained shriek from Draco. He is not familiar with the curse being used. It is something like the Cruciatus, he thinks, but not exactly. And it can’t continue.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” Harry shouts just as Dolohov shifts his attention. Harry is quick, but Dolohov is ready and is quicker. Harry only has a moment to realize that it didn’t work before the pain slices through his body. It is excruciating, like his body is on fire, taken apart piece by piece and cauterized. Harry falls to his knees, trying desperately to shake off the curse. He hears a scream and isn’t sure if it is himself or someone else.

It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the pain, and _Draco_. Who is there, somewhere, and must be protected at all costs.

Harry stands up despite the pain. He cannot focus on a spell, but he still has his hands. His fists. He launches himself at Dolohov, wrapping himself around the larger man and tumbling them both to the ground. The wand goes flying, and the spell ends, although the fire in Harry’s nerves still lingers. He doesn’t care, pulling his fist back to punch with all his strength.

The feel of tightly coiled fingers striking Dolohov’s nose, feeling it bend and break beneath his strength, is brilliant. It is exactly what Harry needs, that sense that meat gives way to power and to fury. Harry punches again and again, driving his fists into Dolohov’s skin.

He stops when he is pulled away, hauled backwards and pushed to sit on the floor. His ears ring, and it takes him a long moment to hear through the pounding blood. Neville’s voice is far away.

“Harry! Harry, he’s down. It’s all right now, he’s down.”

Harry blinks and sees Dolohov lying there, unconscious. “He can Apparate wandlessly,” he says slowly. His throat hurts and his voice is rough, and he has no idea why. “He got away from me before.”

“I highly doubt he’s going anywhere this time,” Draco says dryly. “I suspect he’ll be napping for quite some time, and if you’re concerned he’ll wake, I’d be happy to add a somnolescence spell on top to ensure that he goes nowhere.”

“Draco.” Harry is on his knees next to him, hands light and careful as he checks Draco over. The panic is gone, and he is left with a sense of completion when skin touches skin. Draco winces when Harry finds the bruises, but doesn’t argue as Harry thoroughly checks for damage.

Neville clears his throat. “I think Pansy’s regaining consciousness.”

“You.” Harry is abruptly on his feet, his hands tangled in Pansy’s dress, gripping it tightly at her throat. “You tried to kill me. You tried to kill _Draco_.”

She blinks at him, eyes unfocused and confused. “Whatever are you on about, Potter?” she snaps. “I haven’t seen you in years, and I’ve had no desire to see you either. As for Draco, I wouldn’t harm a hair on his head. Besides, he’s in Rome and I’m in—” She stops, a faint frown creasing her forehead. “This isn’t Paris, is it?”

“What year is it, Pans?” Draco asks. He has come up behind Harry and stands with his hands at Harry’s waist, staying close. When Pansy blinks, eyes widening in surprise, Draco’s fingers dig in to grip Harry more tightly. “What year is it, Pansy?” Draco asks again, his voice harder than before.

“2001,” she answers quickly. “I saw you in Rome last weekend. You asked me there specifically, to see you sing. I gave you my lipstick, and I had to admit that you didn’t sound half bad.”

Harry’s grip wavers. She sounds as if she tells the truth. Pansy Parkinson may have betrayed him in the past, but she has never been a practiced actress.

“Did you see anyone else recently?”

“Vadim Dolohov.” Pansy flushes brightly. “You do remember him, don’t you, Draco? We’ve made plans to meet in Bucharest next week.”

“She’s lost the last two years, Harry,” Neville murmurs. “It’s possible she was under the Imperius Curse.”

“For two years? It would destroy her mind.” Harry looks at the woman he holds, takes in the fear still in her eyes, and the stubborn set to her chin as her pug nose lifts in silent denial of his power over her.

“Exactly.” Draco’s hands slip around him, holding on tightly. “Let her go, Harry. She needs help, not to be hurt.”

“I’ll take care of everything.” Neville’s hands carefully unwind Harry’s fingers from Pansy’s dress, and reluctantly Harry lets go.

“What is the meaning of this?” Pansy reaches for her wand, glaring when she realizes it is gone. “You have absolutely no reason to hold me.”

“I’m afraid we do.” Neville points for her to sit, and Pansy does, her legs crossed neatly at the ankles.

“Let’s go home. Please.” Draco’s whisper is all Harry hears. Dolohov is unconscious on the floor, and Neville seems to have this in hand. And Harry aches and worries for Draco and their child.

“You need to go to St. Mungo’s…”

“I’m fine,” Draco assures him. “What I need right now is to go _home_.”

Home.

It sounds right to Harry, so he wraps his arms around Draco and takes him there.

#

We are barely settled inside of our wards before Harry’s hands are on my face, my shoulders, my body. He pushes my robes and shirt open as if he could see inside my body to the baby within, his hands on my belly. Tears rise to my eyes unbidden, and I push his hands away. I don’t want him to touch me. “I’m fine. The baby’s fine, I promise.”

“You’re not fine.” Harry keeps tugging at my clothes until my top is bared, robes in a puddle at my feet. He hisses when he sees the bruises, and points at the sofa. “Sit. I’ll get the cream.”

It isn’t the first time I’ve been stripped by Harry, but I somehow feel more naked than I ever have before. I start to shiver, wrapping my arms around my center and curling over once I sit. Elbows on my knees, I dig my fingers into my own skin, trying to stop the shaking. When Harry returns and touches my back, I jerk away, staring at him.

“It’s just me, Draco.” His voice is soft, his hands warm. He rolls the cream between his fingertips before stroking it over my bruises. “I’m not going to hurt you, and you’re safe here.”

“Am I?” Because really, I’m here with _Harry_ , who wants my child and nothing to do with me unless I’m female. “I’m not entirely certain I agree. Although I doubt you’ll harm me as long as I’m carrying your child.”

He pauses, hand flat against my shoulder. “You think I’d hurt you?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “You… we… there is no _us_. You want my child.”

He doesn’t reply, his fingers moving over my skin in silent massage. He rubs the cream in, that noxious-scented bruise cream that spreads delicious warmth throughout my body. The pain eases, somewhat, at least the surface damage does. I am still shaking, my hands clenched tightly together to try and hold myself still.

There is a low rustle and I realize that he has shed his robes, his shirt. Harry’s arms go around me, drawing me in close, kissing my temple. Harry’s warm and solid and this is what I have wanted. This _kindness_. Does he do this because I’m hurt, or because he’s afraid? Or does he do this because he wants _me_? I’m afraid to ask, but it helps now to have it.

I burrow in close, head resting on his shoulder. His scent is stronger than the cream, and I turn my face, lips pressing against the pulse that flutters in his neck. He makes a soft sound, and I can’t tell if it is confirmation or denial of my touch, so I stop, just in case. I lie there and breathe him in, and slowly the shakes let go of me.

I need him. I want him.

I think I might love him.

His palm cups my face, turning me to look at him. When his lips brush mine, they are gentle. Careful. As if he is waiting for something.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” I tell him, although I find it hard to believe that he isn’t going to run away as soon as he realizes what he is doing. “Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

I pull back to look at him. “Well, that’s a change, Potter.” My tone is dry.

“Harry.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine, Harry. Tell me, are we friends or is this an illusion crafted for the sake of our child? Because I can no longer tell what it is you want. One moment you have me up against the wall, the next you’re leaving my balls blue from need. Do you even know what you want?”

Something sparks in those green eyes, bright and hungry, and I feel his sharp grin deep in my gut. It calls to me, and my body answers, going tight and hard with shocking swiftness. Harry is… I don’t have the right words for this, but I know that I am his, and this is a link I cannot deny. And right now, as his mouth claims mine, hot and hard, I think that he has stopped denying it as well.

We turn until I am straddling him as he sits back on the sofa, our hips together. He pulls me down, his hands under the waist of my trousers, fingers digging into my arse. I roll my hips, rubbing my erection against his thigh, wanting that friction. There is a moment where he stutters, and I expect him to push me away, walk away again, but instead he reaches for his wand and our clothes are gone with a word.

He looks at me for a long moment, actually _looks_ at me.

“I’m not a girl all the time,” I remind him sharply. “This is me, Harry. Male. Pregnant. Quite likely to be so again, I suspect, until that Pact is satisfied that we have continued the line.”

He smirks. “It’s hard to miss that you’re male, considering your prick is pressing into my thigh.”

“Are you going to do something about it?” When he hesitates, I can’t resist pushing at it. “Scared, Harry?”

He laughs then, and wraps his arms around me. He twists, rolling us off the couch with a pop of Apparition and we land in his bed with him stretched out on top of me. “No. I’m not scared. You?”

“Not of you.”

I don’t need words then, his mouth swallowing anything I might have said. All I want is him. His hand skates over my side, up to my chest, twisting one nipple until it puckers and sends a bolt of fire to my groin. My hips lift, begging for more, but he ignores me.

His mouth replaces his hand, wet and warm, teasing at my skin before he sucks the nipple in. His hand drops lower until he rolls to one side, fingers wrapping around my prick to stroke it. The movement is slow and deliberate, as if he shows me that he doesn’t care that I’m not a girl. Or as if he wants to drive me mad from wanting more.

Likely both.

I press into his touch, and he strokes harder then. I try to shift to encourage his touch to move, but he stops me with the heavy weight of his body. His mouth finds my throat and he bites, and I twist my head to offer the tender skin to him. Submissive. His scent rises then, primal and needy, and my body answers.

I could come like this, from his hand alone, but he lets go, pulling back. He moves down my body, tongue teasing over my belly, kissing the swollen bump. Lower then, until his mouth encloses over my prick and oh _Merlin_ it feels so good. It has been so long. Too long. And it is _Harry_ which makes it better yet that he trusts me and does this for me.

That he wants _me_ , not just the Tuxedo Angel.

Something slick presses against my arse, and I’m surprised. I don’t know when he got the lube, or when he had time to warm it, but his finger slides inside of me carefully stroking.

“More,” I demand, and he laughs, giving me a second finger as he twists them both, trying to find what gives me pleasure. It all feels brilliant. “Fuck me,” I beg. “Please.”

He rises up over me, and as he balances there on his elbows, for a moment I think again that this is it. It’s over. Instead he lifts my leg, angling my arse so that he can press inside far too slowly. His prick is thick, filling me, stretching me. I tilt up towards him, and he finally drives in hard, burying himself to the hilt.

Yes. Perfect. Merlin, this is everything I’ve wanted. 

I’ve been fucked before, but it has never felt like this. I’ve never felt so slick, so needy, so _ready_. Only when he fucked me as a girl, but even now, it’s as if I’m ready for him and him alone. I belong to him, and my body responds to him in impossible ways.

“Fuck. Draco.” His hips twitch and he drives in again, groaning loudly.

“Yes. Yes,” I encourage him, my fingers clinging to his arse, pulling him closer. I roll my hips, moving for him, wanting more and he gives it to me. With a low groan he starts pounding into me, over and over, driving as deep as he can. He scrapes over my prostate and I cry out, and that just makes him push in again. There is a scent, a depth, a need swirling around us. Driving us. I am lost in him and start babbling. His name, nonsense words, anything that comes to mind. I have no thoughts, only feelings as he fucks me, and then it washes through me and over me and my entire body tenses as my orgasm takes over. I lose control, spurting over my chest, feeling it slip and slide between us as we press together.

Harry tenses over me, groaning loudly as he fills me. He collapses over me, and I don’t care about his weight as long as he is close. We roll together and he slips out of me, but I curl into him and he doesn’t push me away.

There are words hanging over us, between us, but I’m not going to say them first. Neither is he, apparently.

It doesn’t really matter what’s said or unsaid, as long as we both stay here. Together.

Home.

#

Sunday, 21 December, 2003

London, England

Last night, 20 December, 2003, while attending the Ministry Ball, Auror Potter and myself interrupted an attempt by Vadim Dolohov and Pansy Parkinson to kidnap and harm suspect Draco Malfoy (aka, the Tuxedo Angel). Mr. Dolohov has been placed in temporary custody in Azkaban, pending a hearing later this month, and Ms. Parkinson has been remanded into custody in St. Mungo’s with a potential admittance to the Janis Thickey Ward still pending.

Collection of evidence is still underway, but preliminary investigations suggest that Ms. Parkinson was the Dragon Lily that we have sought, but that her participation in these activities was involuntary and unwitting. At this time, she remembers nothing since June of the year 2001, when she met with Mr. Dolohov shortly after seeing Mr. Malfoy begin his career as the Tuxedo Angel in Rome.

Ms. Parkinson shows evidence of long term control under the Imperius Curse, including missing memory, paranoia, strange dreams, and unexplained outbursts at unfamiliar surroundings and situations. She insists that she should be released into the custody of Draco Malfoy, and claims that the involvement of Mr. Malfoy with Auror Potter is absurd.

From her point of view, one supposes she is quite correct. However, that does not change the facts of the situation as they are.

We recommend that Ms. Parkinson remain in care in St. Mungo’s until her hearing, and that the hearing itself be concerned with her placement in permanent care until such time as her mind is healed. The healers are uncertain after their first observations how long it might take to reconcile her mind with the things that she has done while under Mr. Dolohov’s influence.

As for Mr. Dolohov, once he regained consciousness this morning he was quite vocal as to his desires and goals. He claimed in front of several witnesses that he controlled Ms. Parkinson, and was willing to give details of the Dragon Lily’s operations throughout Europe and Asia that only one close to her would have known. Apparently, Mr. Dolohov is a part of a rising group of Dark Wizards based between Moscow and Bucharest. They have been extending their influence into the major cities throughout Europe and Asia, and that is where he utilized Ms. Parkinson for her ability to work with others and sway them to the cause. He has also used Ms. Parkinson’s sharp wit and planning to devise operations designed to cripple the Ministry influence throughout these same locations.

Their intention was to complete their goals here in London by neutralizing the Ministry through the destruction of Auror Potter, or by controlling him through Draco Malfoy. They would then have moved their operations to the United States in order to begin laying a web of influence there.

It will take some time to unravel the web that has begun, and to extract the names of others who are a part of this organization. Some are known from our observations of the Dragon Lily over the last several months, but many others remain unknown. We also still need to determine the whereabouts of several Artifacts, both Dark and Light, which were taken by the Dragon Lily in order to further the cause. It seems that Mr. Dolohov is either unaware of their location, or unwilling to give that information without extreme measures.

It is our hope that after continued therapy with the Healers of St. Mungo’s, Ms. Parkinson might regain her memories from the past two years and might be persuaded to work with the Ministry towards the recovery of these items. If she is willing to place herself in our hands, it is our recommendation that all charges against Ms. Parkinson be dropped, and their repercussions transferred to Mr. Dolohov, who is responsible for her actions.

The hearings are set for Tuesday, 29 December, and may occur in lieu of a trial, pending the results of the information presented at the hearings. Mr. Dolohov has been made aware of his rights and the lack thereof. Ms. Parkinson has been provided with a Solicitor familiar with the long term effects of the Imperius Curse to aid in her hearing and in her reclamation of any rights she may still have as regards the Parkinson Estate here in England. 

At this time, the case of the Dragon Lily is considered held, to be closed next week after the hearings. A new case file will be opened for the capture and disbanding of the rising Dark influence.

Sincerely,

Auror Longbottom

#

Christmas passes in a haze of work for Harry. He had thought Draco had settled in to his home before, but now Draco insinuates himself into every corner of the place. When Harry comes home from the office on Christmas Eve, Draco tells him that they will have the next two days to themselves. No work. No trials. No worries about Dolohov or Pansy. No interruptions from friends nor visits to others.

Just them.

It is the first Christmas in a long time that Harry can remember having without the Weasleys, and yet it is also the best Christmas in recent memory. By the morning of the day after Christmas, Draco decides that perhaps he can share, and the two spend the day traveling between Harry’s friends, visiting the Weasleys (where Draco is grudgingly accepted thanks to Harry) and Neville (who is quite friendly to Draco and finally manages to introduce him properly to Hannah) and finally ending the day home once again.

But once Christmas is over, Harry returns to work despite the holiday season and the weekend, as everything is focused on the hearings for Dolohov and Pansy. On the morning of the hearings, he wakes late, and nudges Draco to wake as well. They have time for a lazy, slow fuck, which Harry hopes will ease Draco’s tension.

Still, as they enter the room, Draco’s fingers tighten in Harry’s hands, clinging brutally when he sees Dolohov sitting to one side.

Dolohov smiles, his gaze resting on Draco briefly before it shifts to Harry, and Harry can read what is in those eyes. Dolohov silently tells him that this is not over, and that Harry and Draco are not safe. “He’ll be taken care of,” Harry murmurs to Draco, a promise to both of them. “He’ll be in Azkaban, and you won’t have to worry about him again.”

“My aunt escaped.” Draco’s tone is flat, and so is his expression. 

Harry wonders what goes on behind those grey eyes. As they sit, Harry reaches to turn Draco’s face to him, to meet his gaze. “I was only a kid,” Harry says slowly, his voice low. “And if I’d known then what I know now, I would have done everything in my power to protect you. Now I can. You’re mine, Draco, and nothing is going to come between us.”

Draco’s back remains ramrod straight, his fingers tight in Harry’s. “I know,” he whispers, but Harry can still see the fear there. And when Pansy is escorted into the room, Draco squeezes even harder. “She won’t be sent to Azkaban as well, will she?” Draco asks softly. “It wasn’t her fault.”

“Not if everything goes according to plan,” Harry murmurs. He leans close to Draco, almost unable to resist leaning in, letting his breath wash over Draco’s skin. A small kiss and he can taste salt and soap. There is a soft whimper, and Draco’s touch eases. “She’ll be taken care of,” Harry whispers against Draco’s throat. “I promise.”

He can’t stay like that, not here in public at a formal occasion. But Harry has received permission to stay in the audience for this trial; Neville will handle all required inquiry. Harry has watched Draco become more and more tense as the hearing grew close, and refuses to leave his side. Given the unusual situation, the Ministry has agreed.

Dolohov is placed within the witness box and questioned. Harry misses the questions and answers; he has an armful of Draco who has moved close, one arm around Harry’s back, his head on Harry’s shoulder. Harry takes Draco’s hand again, tangling their fingers where they rest against Draco’s belly. The three of them are united, and Harry listens with half an ear as evidence as presented, and as Dolohov proudly proclaims the supremacy of the _Mişcarea Întuneric_. Dolohov does not hide his involvement in Dark magic; he proclaims it loudly.

He is remanded to Azkaban for life.

Dolohov is removed, and the door opens once more as Pansy Parkinson is brought in. Draco sits upright, watchful and wary. When her eyes light on him, she turns, starts to move towards him, and Draco stands as well. But Pansy is pulled back and made to sit for the hearing, and when she does so, Draco finally takes his seat again.

“You promised,” Draco hisses.

“I did,” Harry repeats, squeezing his hand. “She’s important to you, and she wasn’t responsible for her actions. In fact, she might be able to help us fix things.”

The look Draco gives him is harsh. “Leave her be to heal. She needs that more than you need her help.”

Harry isn’t entirely sure that’s true, but it’s not an argument for now. Not when Draco is tense and worried, and when everything is still so new and fragile between them. No matter what, Pansy does need to heal. But they need her in order to move forward with this case, and until it is truly and completely settled, Harry can’t believe that Draco is entirely safe, even with Dolohov held within Azkaban’s walls.

“According to the calendar on the wall of that hole they insist is the best room they can manage at St. Mungo’s, it is the 29th of December, in the year 2003.” Pansy’s chin tilts up as she speaks, her features thin and sharp. “According to my own calculations, I’d say late June of 2001. It seems I have lost some time somewhere.” Her gaze falls on Draco, and her expression shifts, as if pleading for something. Rescue, Harry supposes, but that is something Draco cannot give.

No matter the circumstance, the crime has indeed been committed, and some reparation will need to be made. Harry cannot take Pansy in; there are no extenuating circumstances like there were with Draco. This is different.

Evidence is brought by the healers at St. Mungo’s, detailing personality assessments and spell results. Neville is brought to the stand to detail what Harry missed the night of Dolohov’s attack: how when Dolohov fell unconscious, Pansy dropped immediately, like a puppet with cut strings.

In the end, Pansy stands proudly, her back as straight and stiff as Draco’s is where he sits. Harry can see the similarity between the old friends, and he can feel how much Draco cares for her.

She is remanded into Ministry custody within St. Mungo’s for the period of one year, or until her mind is able to accommodate the truth. She stands and exits the room with pride, Neville close by her side to escort her back to St. Mungo’s.

Draco slumps with relief. “It’s over,” he says.

Harry has to smile at that. Whether _this_ is over or not, one thing is true, “We’ve only just begun,” he says. “And that is far from over.”

He doesn’t resist when Draco kisses him in front of those who still linger after the trial. The only thing Harry resists is the urge to push Draco back and tease more than kisses from him. That will have to wait until they are alone.

#

“They say to begin the year as you mean to go on.” I lean out over the balcony, looking at the lights of London. The widow’s walk is freshly repaired, giving us a place to go up high, as invisible to the Muggles around us as our house is. I can’t fly while pregnant, but I can enjoy the air here, and Harry often joins me.

Tonight we intend to watch the fireworks as the Muggles ring in the new year in London.

Harry’s arm slips around my waist, and he tucks me close. His breath puffs out in a small cloud, warming my lips before he kisses me. Strong, tender, and still so overwhelming. “And how’s that?” he asks.

“I was thinking we could fuck,” I say idly. “But spending the entire year fucking all the time might chafe after a while. So I think watching midnight come in together shall have to suffice.”

“We’ll save the other until after midnight,” Harry murmurs, moving behind me. His hips press mine into the balcony and I’m half tempted to say forget the fireworks, let’s just go back inside, because no matter how many times we are together, I still _need_ him with a near desperation. His hips move, sliding against my backside, and I can guess that he needs me too.

It’s tempting. Very, very tempting.

We have both shed our formal wear from the official Ministry function that afternoon. We stopped by Weasley and Granger’s place to toast to the year’s end, then returned home after being teased for acting like newlyweds, so willing to hide ourselves away.

It still seems strange to be back in London sometimes. To be accepted for who I am, even if on occasion I might wear a soft cashmere sweater that clings to my nonexistent curves, or when I wear heels beneath my robes. Harry only smiles when he spots the evidence that the Tuxedo Angel isn’t entirely gone, and just last night he made me sing before I could remove my shoes.

But now we are simply ourselves, him in jeans and a t-shirt, and myself in grey trousers and a camisole. My bare toes are cold, but it is nothing a warming charm can’t handle.

Harry’s hands stroke up and down my sides, teasing me as they slip under my camisole to brush against my belly. I lean back into him, loving the strength of him behind me. “So,” I say quietly, tilting my head when his mouth finds my neck. “If we aren’t going to fuck to ring in the new year, what are we going to do?”

“Stand right here, together,” Harry says. “The fireworks will start any moment.”

He speaks easily, but his body tenses behind me. He is up to something. I can feel it in his body, smell it in his scent as it rises around me. My fingers grip the rail, trying to hold on and wait, but his tension bleeds into me. “Out with it, Harry,” I say.

“Just wait,” he replies. He kisses my throat, distracts me with teeth against my skin until I moan, legs going to jelly. In the distance, I hear a soft _boom_ ; when I open my eyes, I see a spray of colour across the sky.

Fireworks. They are one thing I have seen that Muggles do that is lovely. I cannot hear the musical accompaniment, but I know it is there. And while I could create the same effect in the sky with my wand, I enjoy watching this.

Harry shifts, and takes one arm away from me, reaching back into his pocket. When I look down, he holds a small box in front of me. “Take it,” he orders quietly.

I let go of the railing and take the box, opening it to find two rings within. The label on the box is _Whittingers_ , a very fine jeweler indeed, known for his magical creations. The rings themselves seem simple, silver or possibly platinum twisted with gold, but I suspect there is something more about them. I touch one and feel the tingle of recognition; this ring was meant for me and me alone.

“The Ministry won’t recognize our marriage,” Harry admits. “But I don’t think that matters. In my eyes, you’re already mine. And I’m yours. Not just for this child, or for your Pact, but forever.”

I can’t say a word, my breath stolen by the moment. I take one ring out, the one that I know belongs on my finger, and I turn it to see the inside. _My heart, my love. DM & HP. 1/1/2004._

I turn in the circle of his arms and hold the ring out to him, waiting until he takes it before I slip the other one from the box. I let the box fall to the ground; it is no matter. All that matters is this, the formal declaration of everything we haven’t been able to say to each other.

I take his hand, and slip the ring on. He doesn’t wait, taking my hand then in his and sliding the other ring over my own finger. It warms as it changes size to fit my slender finger perfectly. Harry raises my hand to his lips, kissing my fingertips.

“This is how I mean to go on,” he says. In the background fireworks boom, lighting the sky above us as he waits for my answer.

I frame his face with my hands, kissing him thoroughly, and his control slips away. He presses me back against the rail, grinding his hips into mine, showing me how much he wants me, and I laugh. “The answer is yes, you idiot,” I inform him. “Where else would I want to be?”

He grins as he wraps his arms around me, and I know exactly what is coming next as we twist and Apparate, falling sideways into his bed. “I love you, you git,” he murmurs, sliding my camisole up so he can press kisses to my belly and chest.

Dark magic brought us here, and dark magic bound us, but what we have isn’t dark at all. It is what we needed and what we crave. It is our hunger and our desire. As our clothes fall to the wayside, and I claim his mouth, I can finally tell him, “I love you, too.”

And that is all that needs to be said as we welcome the new year, and our new lives, together.


End file.
